


Suspension of Belief

by machi_kun



Series: what we share (and what we hide) [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Civil War Team Iron Man, F/M, Feelings Realization, Fix-It of Sorts, I tried to make this quick and then it got out of hand sorry, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, It Gets Really Uncomfortable, M/M, Metafiction, More like a Pre-Fix-it, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, No character bashing, Possible Spoilers for Avengers: Infinity War, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Prequel, Steve Rogers-centric, Steve's Depression Beard, Steve's Letter to Tony Post-Civil War (Movie), Unreliable Narrator, Yikes, but im not ignoring Steves bullshit either, steve my man i love you but we need to Talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-05-01 16:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 112,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14524311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/machi_kun/pseuds/machi_kun
Summary: They always talk about the calm before the storm.They always dream about the sunshine after the rain.But the truth is that it’s the middle, the moment the thunder strikes and the earth rattles, the moment it pours, that all becomes very, very clear.A story about those three years of silence, three years to be apart, three years to think it through.Three years to learn how to regret.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve read a lot of fics that explore the aftermath of the absolute clusterfuck that was CW (both Fix-its and Non Fix-its), and don’t get me wrong, I love them, but I’ve never seen anyone go into details about Steve’s realization of how badly he fucked up. I mean, if it’s not a Fix-it, he mostly never realizes it, and he just holds tight to his self-righteousness until the bitter end. Makes sense. But in Fix-its, everyone says he’s sorry. He's so very sorry. He grovels and cries, begs for forgiveness, he regrets it. Not just the consequences of his actions on the public security or the Accords, no. He regrets what he did to **Tony**. 
> 
> And I find that very, very weird. Steve dropped his shield very decidedly, walked away without looking back, wrote an apology letter that was mostly about himself, hid a life changing secret for years and stood silently while a (supposed) dear friend’s life crumbled right before his eyes. And then beat him up. He acted like a total asshole there as far as I'm concerned, but the bottom line is that _he made his choice_. He decided this is what he had to do and he resigned to live with it, and in CW there is no expression of him regretting that choice. 
> 
> Then, cue Infinity War, and he suddenly has a Depression Beard™ to represent how deeply he regrets what he has done and all he misses?
> 
> No. Not on my watch. 
> 
> Thus this fic. I was without a doubt Team Iron Man, but I do like Steve and understand his point; I just have some very strong opinions about his actions – ever since Winter Soldier, where I think something went very wrong with his character. So I’m throwing my two cents in and giving you my thoughts about what I think should happen for Steve to truly realize how his actions affected the world around him.
> 
> I’m aware there’s a few fics that discuss (very well I might add) the legal and bureaucratic consequences for Team Cap’s actions, the reaction of the public and things like that, but that’s not really my point here. My point is that MCU Steve is one of the most emotionally stunted people I’ve ever seen and to be honest, saying “he’s sorry” is not gonna cut it for me. I do have a Post Infinity War fic coming up (the Part 2 of this series), but you know what this man gotta do before we make it there? He’s gotta _learn_. 
> 
> So enjoy three chapters of me prying open all of Steve’s motivations and emotional responses, putting his arguments for his actions to the test, and making sure that if he says he’s sorry, he’s gonna fucking mean it.

During, it was all a blur.

Saying he scarcely remembers it is a lie, because he has eidetic memory – and even if he hadn’t, nightmares would always be there to gladly remind him of all the terrible things he wishes he could forget. The mind works in tricky ways. It has its own set of rules that he never understood, never felt like it was necessary, just troublesome details that get in the way in the most inopportune moments.

He is not heartless, not at all. Nor he is saying that emotions and fragile thoughts are useless.

But when there’s a mission to complete, he has to be a soldier. He barely has time to be anything else.

It doesn’t bother him. Not because it was something carved into him when he finally joined the army, because it really wasn’t – he was always like this. Focused, driven, to the point of being stubborn to a fault; making himself tall in all the ways his body wouldn’t allow him, refusing to be shoved over and ridiculed by something so fickle as appearance when his heart had so much more to offer.

It's just that he understands that sometimes, the mission takes precedence. Sometimes, above everything else. It’s how it always has been.

He feels like he was a soldier for much longer than his records say; After all, being a soldier is not something that just stops when you quit the army. As it turns out, it doesn’t even _begin_ in the army. It just sneaks up on you. And once it does, once it _latches,_ it doesn’t simply leave you like that.

Sometimes, he wishes it did. Wishes for it so fiercely he wonders if he’s actually _begging._

But then, he asks himself who would he be, if he had never been at war.

War is all he knows, sometimes.

He knows it well, intimately, as one would know a lover or a friend; and he knows better than to underestimate it or believe too much in it. Even when you win, every casualty feels like a loss. When you lose, knowing you fought for something you thought was right won’t be enough to wash away the bitterness in your mouth. Winning or losing seems very different, but in many ways it’s not, and he thought he knew that. He thought he knew war was useless.

And yet he keeps doing it. He does it again and again, because it’s his job, because it’s in his blood, and no matter how many times he loses, he keeps coming back, almost as if he is addicted.  He doesn’t know why. He feels obligated, but he doesn’t-- he feels like it’s right, but it isn’t.

He can’t stop. He acts anyway, and fights and fights and fights, even though he can’t see past the blur most of the time.

He fought blindly, and he knew.

He shouldn’t be surprised that when the blurriness starts to fade, the destruction they left behind them becomes crystal clear.

 

Their first stop after they leave the United States is Wakanda.

He doesn’t have much time to appreciate it, no, because his mind and his highly alert and paranoid instincts won’t let him. He wraps Bucky’s arm around his shoulders and carries most of his weight all journey, extremely conscious of his presence, his weight, his breathing pattern. It’s ragged, painful, but its _there,_ it’s right there, and no matter how many times Steve keeps looking over his shoulder to check for enemies, a fraction on his attention is always on Bucky, unwilling to let go, as if he would disappear if Steve wasn’t keeping an eye on him.

There’s very little of him that’s not focusing completely on Bucky or his surroundings. So he must admit, the beauty that is Wakanda almost slips him by.

Almost. But it’s hard not to notice beauty in a _safe place._ No matter what place is that.

T’Challa is an honorable man, much more than Steve is - he is young, but his nobility shows through all his mannerisms and actions, the confidence and serenity of a mind that is much older than the body, much wiser, much _more._

A spirit that is quiet, but never still; driven, but peaceful.

Steve never knew T’Challa’s father, and to be honest, he couldn’t say he knew much about Wakanda either; but he held King T’Challa in very high regard, especially after his decision of helping Bucky. He saw what Zemo did. He knew Bucky was innocent. And he didn’t allow his desire for revenge drive him to a reckless decision, and Steve could not be more thankful for it.

But he wonders.

_Did he saw? Did he saw—_

No. Not right now. Later. Safety first. That’s all that matters now.

He will think about Tony later. He had the suit. He had FRIDAY. He would be fine. Steve couldn’t stay, he had to protect Bucky, had to get him away from Tony, he’ll fix this later. He’ll find a way. But first, he has a mission, and he will complete it before anything else – he owes Bucky that.

Steve follows T’Challa closely, unable to keep his uneasiness at bay, even when they arrive at the marvelous country T’Challa calls _home._ There is a group of sharply dressed and heavily armed women waiting for them when they do, and T’Challa introduces them as the Dora Milaje, the royal guard, and the way they greet the man exudes respect and admiration, almost tangible in the air, unwavering trust and loyalty.

Deep in his heart, Steve feels a little knot of uneasiness unclench, relieved for Wakanda even though he has no reason to, glad that a man as just as T’Challa was the one responsible for its safety.

Steve doesn’t have a home now. The nation he spent all his life protecting was now hunting him, treating him like a criminal, and he would take a little peace anywhere he could find it, even if this nation would never be his home either.

T’Challa is very graceful about the whole thing. He brings them to meet his mother, Queen Ramonda, and his lovely sister, Shuri. Incredible women, both of them. Women who remind him of Peggy, and make his chest ache in the most bittersweet way it can. He almost forces out a smile for them. But his face feels cold and hard like stone, like his muscles, tight with residual adrenaline, and he can only stare back at them, trying to be as respectful as he can while doing so.

Queen Ramonda does squint a little when T’Challa tells her of the circumstances that brought them here, but she clearly trusts her son very much, and doesn’t raise an objection even when T’Challa informs they are fugitives.

Shuri, however, reacts a little bit differently.

“I can help you.” She says to Bucky, excitedly, but in a very soft way. As if she was talking to a puppy, really. “With your arm, and with your mind.”

“I don’t want to impose.” Bucky grumbles, not shy, but resistant.

“You have no reason to fear, James Barnes.” T’Challa assures him. “There are no enemies here. I can promise you that. I apologize for the mistake I made against you, and as a way of fixing that mistake, I hope you can allow us to help you in whatever way you need.”

Bucky still hesitates.

But only for a second.

He nods, and Shuri reacts like she’s just been given an early Christmas present—and starts going on and on about treatment and prosthetics, in very specific jargon that Steve can’t even hope to comprehend, but it doesn’t bother him. It’s not the first time he’s seen a genius go crazy with wonder of the possibilities.

Steve had hoped one day, Tony would help him help Bucky. But that’s not going to happen anymore.

But princess Shuri is here. She can help.

And Steve is glad Bucky is getting help. He just wishes taking his arm off his shoulders and letting him leave didn’t feel like losing him all over again, every single time, and he doesn’t know what he can do to make it stop.

Queen Ramonda watches Bucky and Shuri leave with an unreadable expression.

Then, she moves her gaze back to Steve. Unwavering. Scrutinizing.

Steve very carefully keeps his face a blank mask, swallowing his feelings down, raising his walls like a fortress around his heart.

 

The very next day, Bucky says something that almost destroys Steve.

“I want to go back under.” He confesses. “Until it’s safe.”

Steve tries to convince him not to.

He’s not dangerous. He’s safe here. There’s no need. Steve will be there for him.

Bucky only gives him a weak smile, a smile that is almost a grimace, and says _he can’t._

He goes back under.

And Steve feels like a failure, deep inside, never being able to protect his best friend, even now. Even after everything he’s done. Everything he’s sacrificed.

It’s useless. He is always losing.

 

“You are welcome to stay if you like, Captain.” T’Challa offers him, his tone incredibly gentle, but in a way that makes Steve feel respected, not coddled. He feels like T’Challa is giving him an opening he doesn’t usually offers people, and Steve appreciates the king’s help. It certainly is very noble of him. “We will be completely responsible for James Barnes’ security and health, as I promised. There is no need for you to worry.”

“I’m not worried.” Steve says, but it’s not true. It feels like a lie in his tongue, heavy and bitter, and he knows that if T’Challa can see through him, it is only because he is too close to the situation and knows better than to undermine the consequences of all his actions from now on. Anyone else would’ve never caught his lie. He’s gotten too good at it through the years, too good at pushing through barriers of pleasantry and bureaucracy to find himself an opening to act.

He hates that he had to. He shouldn’t have to lie to do what’s right.

T’Challa considers him with a look that takes almost a second too long to be casual.

Steve knows he is being analyzed, but he doesn’t cower under the king’s careful gaze. Steve did not flinch under Queen Ramonda’s silent judgment, he won’t back down for T’Challa either, even if the man is a king. He can think whatever he likes.

_You tell the world: No, you move._

“But will you stay?” T’Challa asks finally.

“I have to do something first.” He says, only half deflecting the question. “Sam and the others are still on the Raft. Tony hasn’t let them out. I have to get them out of there, or else Ross will take the chance and do something terrible to them. Especially to Wanda.”

“Hm.” T’Challa hums, and now his tone is not as disinterested. Steve still can’t place it, but there is a definite note of emotion and curiosity to his words when he says: “And you don’t trust Tony Stark to get them out of there.”

“Tony won’t go against the Accords.” Steve says, emphatically.

“Not even to help his friends?”

“I can’t sit still and hope for the best.” Steve half-growls, feeling the clenching of his jaw so strongly it almost hurts at his temples, strength like steel under his bones and white-hot fury between the tendons of his fists. “They don’t deserve it. I have to get them out.”

T’Challa takes a very careful breath, turning his gaze towards the horizon, frowning lightly. Steve feels like T’Challa didn’t quite expect that answer, because something between them turns a little somber all of a sudden. Steve, half out of respect, half out of uneasiness, also turns his gaze to a distant point through the window.

“I won’t be able to help you in this mission, Captain. It is beyond my resources, and my morals, to do such a thing.” T’Challa says after a while, almost regretfully.

“I wouldn’t ask you to help me with this.” Steve replies, decidedly.

He doesn’t need the king’s help. He can get into the Raft alone if he has to. It’s dangerous, he knows it, and T’Challa would suffer the consequences more than anyone else, if the mission failed.

Steve will do it alone, it’s fine. He can do it.

T’Challa nods at him, a very short movement Steve only catches at the periphery of his sight.

“Then I wish you a safe journey, Captain.” The king says, simply. “And we will give you a safe place to return to, if you so decide.”

Steve nods, feeling thankful, but not relieved. Feeling better, but not happy.

“Thank you, Your Highness.” He says, equally professional. There isn’t much feeling in his words, but then again, he’s not really feeling much at this moment. His thoughts are elsewhere. His adrenaline is picking up at the thought of _the next step, the next mission, going forward,_ always going forward. “It’s very kind of you.”

But he gives no answer. Not really.

Steve has gotten really good at that.

 

Before he goes, he checks on Bucky one last time.

He does that a lot. After all, not like he can do much else.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, watching a motionless Bucky—his best friend, once more silent, once more frozen, and it kills him inside to see him like that. He doesn’t deserve it. No one deserves it. It shouldn’t be like this.

Bucky is a good man. A good man who’s been dealt the worst hand possible. Seeing him there, in _ice,_ is giving Steve the worst kind of feelings, a weird type of anxiety, far too close to a flashback for him to be comfortable with it. He can remember the way the cold can reach your bones, like it’s growing from the inside, freezing everything but your mind. The body, completely still, the mind, running mad with despair and grief. He wants to believe Bucky will be safe, he will be fine, but Steve can’t trust ice. He probably never will.

He would take Bucky’s place if he could. Steve would’ve taken another seventy years frozen if it meant Bucky didn’t have to be in there.

“He will be alright.” Princess Shuri smiles out of the corner of her mouth, trying to give him a little sense of security.

“I know.” Because he does. Bucky is the strongest person he knows, and Shuri is a genius. She’ll find a way to help him. But it’s not _trust._ He doesn’t know what it is, but it’s not trust. “I just wish it wasn’t necessary.”

Shuri hums—the same way T’Challa does. A quiet, thoughtful thing, that sounds so loaded in such a short breath that it never fails to make him feel _analyzed._ He wonders if she picked this up from T’Challa, or if they both got it from Queen Ramonda herself. Seems like the most probable option.

Princess Shuri takes a deep breath, so carefully it almost doesn’t make a sound, and starts: “I don’t—” then she stops. Tries again. “You won’t like what I have to say, but I will say it anyway.”

Steve turns to her, raising an eyebrow ever so slightly, silently urging her to continue.

“I don’t think you should be here when he wakes up.”

For a second, he thinks he heard that wrong. But he knows he didn’t. And immediately he feels his defenses rising, arming his feelings like a tank, ready for a fight. “I’m sorry?”

“He is going to be fragile.” Shuri says, as a matter of fact. Like this is all a mere scientific truth, not _his unconscious best friend_ in an _ice chamber._ “I can remove all traces of the brainwashing he received, but it won’t be enough. He is in pain. He has felt nothing but fear and anger for years, and now he finally can feel other things, the emotion he will feel the most is _guilt._ And having you around isn’t good for him.”

“He’s my best friend. I won’t leave him.” Steve says in a tight voice, reminding himself the person in front of him not only is just a child, she is also Wakanda royalty. He shouldn’t antagonize her. Even though something inside him desperately wants to.

“He was your best friend.” Shuri counters. “Are you the same person you were seventy years ago, Captain? Are you even the same person you were before you became a fugitive?”

Steve opens his mouth to reply – probably much snappier than he should – but Shuri places down the prototypes she’d been working on atop the worktable with a little too much noise to be an accident. She gets up, decidedly, and walks closer to Bucky, and Steve feels the hairs at the back of his neck bristle a little with her move, a deep-seated instinct to _protect Bucky_ even though there is no danger in sight.

Shuri turns back around to him, standing in front of the chamber, checking Bucky’s status and test results in a hologram projected out of the object around her wrist. “This man is not your best friend. You don’t know him, because he doesn’t know himself. He might come out of this chamber and you might find out you despise the person he became.”

“I would never hate him.” Steve denies firmly.

“You can’t know that.” Shuri argues back, a little exasperated, like she’s talking to a stubborn child. “And you are not being fair to him.”

Steve closes his mouth shut, his teeth clicking together in a painful way. Shuri keeps talking anyway.

“He needs time to heal. He needs to find out who he is without other people controlling his thoughts! And if you expect him to come out of this chamber only to act like your best friend from the forties, you are a fool. He might not like you now, have you thought of that?”

Something grips Steve’s heart in such a painful way he fears he might collapse at any second. He can feel his blood turning into lava, his heart rate picking up speed, spiraling out of control. He wants to argue back. It almost physically pains him to keep quiet, because this can’t be happening, she can’t really believe what she’s saying.

Shuri shuts down all projections with a sigh, taking a second to look at Bucky’s peaceful expression with a thoughtful look on her face, and when she looks back at Steve, her will is as strong as ever, unshakable and assured, and the very small part of him that can appreciate her bold nature is completely overshadowed by the sheer feeling of _offence_ that floods him at the mere thought that Steve might hurt Bucky in any way.

He breathes deeply to keep himself controlled, and he knows he must look like an angry bull ready to attack, his chest pushed out in defiance, his expression hard. But Shuri is not intimidated. She is a princess. She is used to not being questioned.

Or maybe that’s because she is a genius. Could be either.

Steve hasn’t been good at following orders in a very long time – and he thinks about telling her just that, but they have _Bucky,_ and Steve doesn’t _trust._ He simply doesn’t. He doesn’t think Shuri has any ill intentions, or that T’Challa might stab him in the back for no reason, but that’s exactly it. As long as they don’t have a reason. Everyone is always trying to look after themselves; but Steve is the one trying to look out for _Bucky_ , and he won’t give them a reason to believe he’s not worthy of their help. Bucky needs this much more than him.

There is a long silence between them. Shuri watches without a word as Steve very visibly relaxes his shoulders, forcing himself to lose his defensive stance, purposefully giving him a few moments to calm down. When he does, she nods, as if they reached some sort of agreement Steve wasn’t even aware they were looking for, but he guesses that’s fine. He can compromise. For Bucky. Shuri is the one treating him so he might as well do as she says, just for now.

But apparently, she isn’t done. Something is weighting on her mind still.

“No matter what his choice is going to be, he needs to choose. And he needs to do it alone.” She says, a bit regretful, as if she is not very happy about this either. “Your presence makes him feel obligated to act like you expect him to. Because he owes you, not because that’s how he really feels.”

Steve feels that invisible hand squeezing his heart so tight it makes him nauseous. “He told you that?”

“He didn’t have to.”

_Don’t try to guess what he feels. You don’t know him._

But Steve can’t antagonize her. She’s Bucky primary caretaker now. There’s nothing to gain from being rude to her. She thinks she knows what’s best, he knows it, but she’s young and probably a bit too idealistic, and Steve’s known Bucky his whole life. He can help Bucky.

But Shuri is in _charge,_ here. This is her lab. Her resources. Her country. Steve can’t win this fight right now.

“I wouldn’t force him into anything.” Steve grumbles, just because he can’t stay quiet about this, his voice as sharp as steel.

“You think you wouldn’t.” Shuri replies, disbelieving. “But we all try to please people we respect. He will do the same. And to be very honest, pleasing you is not a priority right now. He needs to be himself before he is anything else. Even to you.”

Steve had come here to say he’ll be back soon. He will get everyone else out of the Raft, and he will be back, and when Bucky’s good, when he’s _safe,_ they’ll go to somewhere else where they can keep low and help Bucky adjust to the future properly. They wouldn’t _impose._ Bucky wouldn’t want that. So Steve would be back, and as soon as he was, they would go, together, as he promised.

And now this.

_You shouldn’t be here._

Steve won’t leave him. Not again.

_It’s what’s best for him._

“I understand.” He says, completely emotionless, keeping the bitterness and the sharp tang of frustration hidden under so many layers of masks that he can almost believe he doesn’t actually hates this. But he does. “Thank you for taking care of him, princess.”

“You can trust us.” Shuri assures him; but he can see it in her eyes, she knows he won’t believe her. “He is safe here.”

But it’s hard for Steve to believe Bucky will be safe anywhere that’s not by his side right now.

It’s just hard to believe.

 

He leaves.

_He loses. Always loses._

And it feels like every step he takes is a sharp knife through his heart.

 

The letter is spur-of-the-moment kind of thing.

It hadn’t even crossed his mind before, because all he could think of was how he could find a way to break into the Raft without getting caught and leaving with four other people right under Ross’ nose. His plan is half careful, but half mad, and the reason he gets back into the country and into the Raft without being spotted at all is due to his skills as much as it is to dumb luck. He’s always been a little reckless about things like this. When there’s a mission to complete and no one is doing anything, Steve just charges ahead, sometimes with only the barest of thoughts, just because he can’t stay still and let injustice rule.

So far, it hasn’t failed him. So he doesn’t see why he should stop.

But he is spotted. Just not by Ross’ people.

He is working on the security panel, frantically looking from screen to screen as he types in commands he can remember from previous experiences, guesses a few things here and there, just enough so he can access the cells without causing much more damage. He’s already rendered unconscious the four guards of this room. He would like to avoid any other unnecessary encounters, because this whole thing is already messy enough as it is.

He misses having his shield with him. It’s almost like being naked, going into a mission without it, and he grabbed one of the guard’s guns just for safety’s sake, even though he hates firearms with a passion. He keeps glancing at it from the corner of his eye, just by the keyboard he’s typing in, keeping all his senses alert to any indication someone is coming close to the control room. He knows there’s still a few guards walking around, patrolling the halls and the upper floors. If he’s spotted, Steve won’t ever be able to come out. He’ll be trapped here, just like the others.

That’s why he’s rushing. So much, actually, that even though the camera panels are _right there_ and his serum-enhanced hearing is definitely working, someone does sneak up on him, and he startles so bad he almost breaks the keyboard.

“Hello, handsome.” A voice calls from behind him, and he reaches for a gun he stole from one of the guards in reflex, aiming for the chest and with his finger on the trigger. “Come here often?”

And then he sees her. And he relaxes.

And tenses again immediately.

“Natasha.” Steve breathes, shocked. He feels relief automatically, so intensely it’s not even comforting, more like a punch in the guts, making him sound a little winded. She very clearly finds that very amusing.

“Cap.” Natasha smirks, not with a lot of humor, but with a twinge of affection. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too.” Steve says, completely serious. He doesn’t comment about her hair; it’s short again, but in a different style, and a totally different color. It’s the first time Steve has seen her as a brunette, it’s a bit off-putting. He wonders if it’s on purpose. With Natasha, every single detail feels deliberate.

He won’t ask. He’s not sure if he can. The last time he’d seen her, they fought without pulling punches, and parted ways unsure where their relationship stood. He doesn’t know if she’s here as a friend, or a foe. “What are you doing here?”

“Helping you.” She assures, pushing away from the wall and approaching him with steady steps, even though Steve is still holding the gun, just in case. “It’ll be much faster and much safer if you have help. The Raft’s security is not easy to override.”

She’s right. But because Steve is not one known for pulling punches, nor for being very sensible when he’s so high strung as he is right now – as he’s been the last few… years, really -, he blurts his next comment the same way he would blurt an insult, or an order, or both; accusing and unflinching, eyes sharp on every detail, every tell, an even though he merely speaks, the silence makes it seem like a shout:

“I thought you would be with Tony.”

Natasha pauses for a second, in front of the console. Then, she picks up the keyboard and starts typing, without turning around to look Steve in the eye.

“No.” she says, and her voice betrays nothing, but Steve knows now; that with Natasha, no reaction is a reaction in itself. She’s guarded. She’s wounded, somehow. “I can’t stay. It’s not safe. I’m a Russian spy, first and foremost, and I will always be. My position is very fragile even with Tony backing me up. It’s not really the time to take risky chances like that.”

“So you decided to help me invade the Raft? Nice definition of risky you have.” Steve jabs, trying to rile her up.

He doesn’t want her tense like that. Not if she really came to help. Steve will gladly have her by his side, always, because Natasha is a good friend, even after a tough fight – _especially after a tough fight -,_ and he will take any sort of normalcy he can get. Natasha’s snarky humor. The team by his side. _Bucky_ , whenever he can.

Natasha gives him a smirk, but it’s weak and demure, much more grief than amusement, but Steve will take it. She’s here. She wants to help. Steve would never push her away.

They nod at each other; an unspoken agreement, a truce, an apology, all at once, and Natasha goes back to work, typing away with total concentration, not even taking her eyes away from the screen as she does so.

He can imagine her doing so before – when they leaked SHIELD’s files to the world. He wasn’t there, but he imagines it. Natasha, completely in her element, as powerful as she is now, unflinching even though he is going straight for the enemies’ jugular, standing in its territory.

He missed having her on his side. On his _team._

Despite all the reasons why he shouldn’t, he trusts her a lot.

“Why sign it, then?” he asks, because he has to. He has to know. He’s not even sad or irritated, he’s curious, because he knows Natasha always has more reasons and more arguments and more opinions than any of them can ever dream of guessing. There is always something hidden, in her. He wondered, during all of it, during all the fight, if she saw something he didn’t. Something that could’ve prevented this. “You could’ve helped us stop it. Tony would’ve listened to you.”

“Don’t.” Natasha stops typing, for a moment, to stare at him from behind her shoulder. “Not now, Cap.”

He wants to ask. He wants to press her for an answer.

But he won’t. He will trust her. They can talk about it later.

It’s probably too late for the Accords anyway. The damage’s been done.

“So you’re leaving? With us?” Steve asks instead, trying to make it sound a bit like a question, but also as an affirmative, and somehow, he messes it all up and it comes out sounding like a petulant inquiry.

Natasha inclines her head to the side, in a flippant gesture. “If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t.” he assures. “But what does that mean?”

“For who? For me?” she asks, and there’s actually a little bit of bitterness in her tone. “For you? For the Accords?”

_For the Avengers?_

“All of it.”

“It means we’re fugitives, Cap. That’s all. And lucky for you, I happen to be very good at hiding.”

And then she whispers. It’s quiet, almost inaudible, and it would’ve been for anyone else. But he hears it, and she _knows._ She sounds like she didn’t want to say it, but she had to, because she couldn’t _help herself_.

“I just hope Tony will be ok.”

And Steve can’t blame her. She wants reassurance.

_He does too. How he wishes he could give her that. Give himself that._

_He wishes he could believe it would get better. But he doesn’t know how._

“He’ll be fine.” Steve says, because he wants to believe it. Because he can’t think about this right now. Not while they’re here. “Tony is strong. He’ll hold himself steady.”

After all, he always has.

But Natasha sighs, soft and sad, and just as she types one last line and pushes a button, and the ways to the cells are all clear, she mumbles to herself:

“Yeah, I hope so.”

 

They get in. They open the cells. They get out.

Somewhere at the back of his head, Steve wonders how it could be so easy. He knows better than to underestimate Natasha and her incredible skills, but this is a facility built to keep even the most capable and strong locked up, and its systems shouldn’t be so quick to being brought down. He wonders, silently, if Natasha stole something that allowed easier access. Something of Tony’s. It sounds like something she would’ve done.

It leaves a bitter taste in his tongue, something sharp and coppery, thick and disgusting between his teeth. _The memory of blood._ His hands shake a little with a phantom sensation of his shield vibrating on impact, and he itches beneath his skin in a way he can’t quite stop.

It sounds so terrible; to break into a place that Tony helped fortify, using his own tech against him.

_But it’s a prison. There’s no other choice. Tony shouldn’t have helped built this thing in the first place._

But he feels bad anyway. He never liked to steal. And Tony is not an enemy, despite all that happened, and destroying something he helped build feels particularly wrong, especially now. After Ultron. After cutting ties.

Steve has almost no regards for rules, despite what his Captain America persona might make people believe, because rules are restrictive, and Steve never liked to feel trapped. Even less now, after seventy years trapped inside an ice cage.

In fact, if Natasha wasn’t here, he wouldn’t even bother with it. He probably wouldn’t even think about it, because he knew he’d have no help and there would be no other way. He’d just swallow the bitterness down and do what he has to do, because it’s what’s right, and that was that.

But he did have help. He does. Natasha is here, and she wasn’t supposed to be, and he can’t help but think of what might have caused her to leave the compound, what happened between her and Tony, and if Tony _knows_ they’re here. He most likely does. But there are no alarms blaring, no guards coming after them, so Steve doesn’t know what to think of it.

He wonders if this is the way Tony is trying to help them. By not acting against them.

_Not acting counts as help? It didn’t before. Is this helping, or just ignoring?_

_Does he know? Does he care?_

He probably does. He must. The Avengers are still his team, even when they’re apart.

But Steve can’t know for sure. He can never know.

The thought infests his mind the same way a damn parasite would, creeping up on him and slowly taking roots in the deep corners of his mind, making him paranoid. He feels restless. Like he’s being watched, but he can’t be sure if he really is – but what if he is, what does that mean? He wonders if Tony would reach out for them first, but it doesn’t seem likely. Tony is a very proud man. And he must be hurt, Steve knows this, because they all are, and Tony would never willingly show weakness. Not to Steve, or any of them.

But Steve is stubborn. So damn stubborn. He has too many mixed feelings about Tony, about his team breaking apart, and having all of them here _except Tony_ is making him feel extremely uncomfortable, because that’s not how it should be.

He has to do something. Not acting is not helping.

He thinks about it all the way to the cells. Sam grins at him mischievously when he spots him, and Steve is so glad to see them all, to see them mostly unharmed, even though seeing Wanda restrained makes his gut tighten with barely contained fury, indignant and disgusted, his hands aching with an animalistic desire to make Ross pay for such cruelty against a _kid._

But the Raft can’t hold him back now. Steve opens the cells and their reunion feels like coming home, feels right, feels _just._ It feels like he’s finally doing something good.

And still, the whispers won’t stop.

_Does he know? Does he care?_

They’re already leaving when the idea occurs to him.  It’s barely a full thought and he’s blurting it out, careless in a way he hasn’t felt in a very long time, and he interrupts right when Clint and Natasha are done _hugging it out_ – as Clint calls it, while he squeezes a barely-reciprocating Natasha in his arms – with a hand carefully placed of her shoulder, and his face composed in a very careful blank mask.

“Natasha” Steve calls, urgently, pulling her away from Clint, and Natasha interprets his tense shoulders and whispering voice as a sign of imminent threat, because she goes stiff immediately, her hand flying to her knives.

Steve recoils back a bit, but not enough to be perceptible. He then softens his voice, for some reason feeling like what he’s about to say has to be whispered. “It’s ok, we haven’t been spotted.” He assures her, but immediately follows with: “I need you to do me a favor”

“Now?”

“I need to get something to Tony.”

She frowns in a way that speaks volumes. Steve knows she’s too tense to react as he expects her to, because that’s what Natasha does, she gets stone cold calm when she’s pressured, but he also knows that if they were anywhere else right now, what she would’ve said was _why the hell would you do that, Steve?_

Why reach for Tony now? Isn’t it too late?

_No. It can’t be._

He should at least say something, right? He can’t go off like this, without a word, like there was nothing wrong.

A last message, at least. Just so Tony knows there’s no hard feelings.

He knows things are bad, he knows Tony’s hurt, he’s _alone,_ but—but Steve doesn’t want him to feel bad. He knows Tony reacted on instinct. Hell, he did too. They were angry, they were being pressured by all sides, they had no time to think of a way out. It was all… It was a mess. They fought, they hurt each other, they separated; but they’re not broken. Steve doesn’t think they are. And he shouldn’t let Tony think they are.

One day, they can fix this. They can deal with it. It’ll blow over – and Bucky will be safe, Wanda will be safe, they’ll be free, and then they’ll fix it. It’s not the end of the world. They can save the Avengers, after they both heal.

So he improvises while they’re leaving, sneaking out of the city towards the Quinjet, and trusts Natasha to deliver the message before they leave America definitely.

 

A letter and a burner phone.

_God._

Why did he think that would be _enough_?

 

During the first month, Steve anxiously took the phone with him everywhere, sometimes taking is out of his pocket to rub his thumb over the sides, tapping distractedly at the back, wondering if Tony had already received the package. He knew he could trust Natasha to bring the package inside, but actually delivering was another matter altogether, and no matter what year was it, 1945 or 2015, mail delivery was never too trustworthy. So he waited. Waited for like what he felt was a reasonable amount of time for package to arrive at the Tower, for Tony to read the letter and think about it a little, and then call Steve back.

But then, a month became two.

Then three.

By the fourth month, Steve could feel the way his jaw hurt whenever he looked at the phone, an almost imperceptive grinding of his teeth, the feeling of something dark and ugly growing deep in his guts, something that made him feel _angry._ He feels disappointment and frustration and impatience, bubbling like lava inside a waking volcano, but he keeps silent; he glares at the wall and huffs, but he won’t throw a tantrum like a child, because it would be ridiculous.

He’s thinking it through, he tells himself. Be patient.

“He won’t call.” Natasha whispered, startling him a little bit, but not enough to make him jump. He knew she was there. He has heard her come in almost half an hour ago, but she hadn’t said anything, just stood there leaning against the door, and Steve let her, keeping his head down and frown hidden even though he’s sure Natasha can read him like a children’s book just by his posture.

Steve raises his eyes, but otherwise doesn’t move; and Natasha is not even looking up at him from the spot she was staring on the floor.

“You know that, right?” she asks, a little sad. Resigned.

“I reached out the best that I could.” Steve argues and-- that tastes really bitter in his tongue. It’s a surprise he can sound so calm. “I can only hope he’ll reach us back, if he needs us.”

“He might need us someday, but he still won’t do it.” Natasha purses her lips, raising her gaze to his. “It’s not like him.”

“There are things even Tony can’t take on alone.”

“He will try anyway. Did you know that while we were away…” _while we were chasing the Winter Soldier,_ chasing _Bucky_ , is what she doesn’t say, but Steve hears the words in her pause anyway. “Tony chased down the Mandarin alone?”

“Yeah.” Steve murmurs, displeased. “I saw it in the news, after we came back.”

“He’ll do it again if he has to. We’re not there anymore. We’re not Avengers, here. If the Avengers are ever needed now, he’ll go anyway, with or without us. Because that’s what he does, because he doesn’t know how to stop. He fights, even when he’s in disadvantage.”

“If he can.” Steve says, a bit sarcastically, unable to stop himself. “If the Accords let him help at all.”

Natasha finally glances at him, her stare sharp as her knives, practically dissecting him right where he stands. “That’s what you’re waiting for? For him to call and ask you for us to fight in his place?”

_Yes._

(He hears an echo of his own voice, amplified in anguished silence, against bare and cold walls.)

_Yes._

“We could help, if he needed us to.”

“We could.” Natasha concedes. “But that’s not really the point, is it?”

Irritated – with Natasha, with the silence, with the phone, with _Tony,_ so many things beyond his control he can’t quite accept and let go of -, he asks, his tone dry and snappish. “Why not?”

“Because if he decides he doesn’t need us, it doesn’t matter. He still won’t call.”

But Natasha’s wrong.

Of course Tony would need them. They were the Avengers. The world needed them. While they were divided, the world would never be safe.

_Be patient._

_The wounds were still fresh. It’s ok._

Soon, everyone will realize they can’t keep the Avengers shackled. They can’t hold them back with stacks of paper. When they are needed, when the world needs them to be there, they will be, and this fight can come to an end.

All he has to do is wait.

Not even silence lasts forever.

 

Three weeks later, right after they moved from Iran to Libya, Natasha gives him the news.

“There was an attack in Argentina today.” It’s what she says, curt and professional, as if she’s giving him a report. She stares at him right in the eye, wearing her cold expression like an armor, daring him to say something. Daring him to protest. Daring him to _contradict her_ once again. “A few casualties. Argentina took a little time to allow the Avengers entrance in the country, but it went well. Minimal property damage, even.”

Her lips give only the smallest of twitches, but there’s so much emotion in the movement he can’t look away.

“He’s back on the field, Steve. I told you.”

And that’s when Steve starts to worry.

The phone never made a sound.

 

He keeps waiting. What else can he do between missions? On the run?

Time was always getting the best of him. First, he lost it, and was thrown into a world where everything happened so fast he couldn’t keep up, couldn’t rest, couldn’t trust. Seventy years passed him by and he didn’t even know, leaving and being left, and there was no way of getting anything back. That’s the worst part. That no matter what he does, how hard he tries, how many rules he breaks, the clock just doesn’t turn back. This is it. He lost those years. That’s all there is to it.

But now, he’s watching himself lose. He’s being an active participant on it. Every second he has to sit still and wait is torture, every ticking of the clock like the pressing beeping of a bomb, slowly making its way to detonation – but it never does, so its just _tick, tick, tick. Time is slipping by, Steve. What will you do?_

It never rings.

He waits and he waits. That’s all he can do.

And in the end, it’s the irony of his situation, the damn title of _king of waiting too long_ he seems desperate to uphold despite himself, that pisses him off the most.

 

When they hit the seven-month mark on the run, Natasha brings them all very alarming news.

They are hiding in Cambodia this time around. It’s getting harder and harder to move with the entire group, they are too many and not inconspicuous at all, not when their faces are known by the entire world. It’s their last night together, they decided – Wanda and Clint will go a bit farther without them, and Scott is still thinking about what he’ll do, and he only has a few hours left to decide. They leave as soon as the sun rises.

This weird goodbye reunion they’re having in the hotel room is the reason why Natasha marches in and finds them all in the same spot, her steps heavy and hard with an intense emotion exuding from her entire posture, as if she’s vibrating out of her bones.

She sweeps her gaze through all of their faces, but when her eyes land on Steve, her words are clipped and tense, heavy with unhappiness.

“Tony sold the tower.”

They all stop in their places, collectively shocked.

“What?” Clint asks, flabbergasted.

“I was just informed. He is moving all Avengers business to the compound, and removing all Stark Industries property from the building, moving it to another location. Across the country, apparently.”

“Why would he do that?” Scott frowns confusedly.

“He’s separating SI from the Avengers. Now the Avengers are run by the United Nations, he can’t have a private property running in the same location.  It seems like he was organizing this for a very long time, the announcement was made yesterday morning but the equipment is almost all ready to be shipped out. By the end of the month, the Tower will be empty.”

Something painful grips his stomach tight in his belly.

Sam, standing directly behind Steve, is the one who asks the question Steve can’t find in himself the strength to utter:

“Where the hell will he live? The tower was his home.”

_His home. Our home, once._

It hurts, like a knife going straight through his heart, lurching like the ground is suddenly giving away beneath his feet.

_Losing home. Losing time._

Why would Tony _do_ this? Is this—is this his way of telling them it’s over? That they have no home back there now? That he won’t have them back if they try to repair things? It’s not _fair._ They haven’t done anything wrong. They hadn’t left by choice, they were pressured by the Accords, and they all did what they thought was right at that moment. They can’t be blamed for that.

_Does he know? Does he care?_

He _does._ Steve knows he does, even though he feels like sometimes he has to remind himself of that fact. He does. Steve has a tactical mind, but very small tact with feelings, and even he could see the little things Tony did for them through the years. He gave Bruce a lab. He gave Natasha protection. He gave Clint weapons. He gave them all a home.

But he’s taking it all back. No, he’s _letting_ the Accords take it all from him. He’s ceasing control, and it’s ridiculous, because Tony is the most controlling person Steve has ever met. That damn futurist mind of his, going through every scenario and trying to prevent all the bad ones from happening all at once, how can he let this kind of thing happen? First Ultron, now this?

They’re trying to keep them out. And Tony is letting them, letting them isolate him, letting _himself_ be isolated by not calling Steve.

It infuriates him in a way he can barely contain.

He feels wrong. He feels heavy, and hot, and too much. The urge to take the phone out of his pocket and call is almost overwhelming, but he won’t do it in front of everyone else, he can’t afford to show that kind of unrestraint in front of his team. They are all sneaking glances at him, unsure. Waiting for his reaction. Waiting for his plan.

“It’s not sure yet where he’ll stay. War Machine and Vision are still on the compound, and I’d guess that very soon Spider-Man will be too. Tony might recruit him officially now SI and the Avengers are separate.”

“He can do that?” Wanda asks, arching her eyebrows.

“With the approval of the board. UN is the one who decides who has access to the compound. If he’s approved, he’s in.”

_But they hadn’t, so they can’t._

_Now there’s no Tower. There’s no second plan._

(Locks can be replaced, but maybe they shouldn’t.)

(Is that it? Is this his answer?)

But he is. He is replacing them. He’s removing himself from the conflict, guarding his own, burning bridges for the sake of _diplomacy_ and _bureaucracy._ There is no back door now. There is the compound, the UN, the duty, and there’s only one way in.

For all the conflict they had over the years, Tony has never felt so distant from them before.

 

They barely sleep, all for different reasons. Steve knows, but he doesn’t ask.

In the morning, they separate. Not too much, but enough to be noticeable. Enough to disturb the weak, fragile balance they had kept during the previous months.

The silence grows.

And that’s when it starts to happen.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My God, that is A Chapter. Look at that word count. I definitely went too far with this one.
> 
> Ok, here we go. It's finally time to dive in deep and tackle the first really uncomfortable subject we need to adress in this fic: The Sokovia Accords.
> 
> As I've previously mentioned in the comments (let's be honest, yall know any CW fic is a controversial fic, if you haven't read the comments yet you eventually will, even if it's just to watch the drama unravel. I see you. You can't fool me), I don't consider the Sokovia Accords to be the actual problem that drove the Avengers apart. But of course they helped, so they should be discussed for the sake of this work. Once again, I'd like to remind everyone that despite all the talk that will occur about the legal repercussions of the Accords, the point is not actually to define if they are good or bad. Do I have an opinion about them? I do. And I'm sure part of it is going to be visible despite my attempts to keep this work as impartial as I can because let me tell you, the amount of thought I put into the Accords for this fic goes _way_ beyond what I expected to go. It's really not as simple as the movies make it seem. And I'm sure someone will eventually feel the instinctive need to go on about how "they're bad!" or "they're good!" just because, but when I say it's not as simple as it seems, believe me, it's really _not that simple_. Legally, politically or ethically. I could write an entire essay on it. And if I ever do, it's not gonna be here.
> 
> But, my opinions aside, Steve sure has some opinions of his own. And it's his opinion, his motives, and his emotional responses that are at stake here. My point is that we're talking about why he does what he does, and I'm not above pushing him against the wall to make him talk. If you agree or disagree with what will be said - well, that has to do only with your own opinion of what the Accords are, considering how much and in which circumstances we saw them in action. 
> 
> Of course, this fic is being written not only by a person who was technically opposed to his stance in CW, so I don't pretend to be unbiased, but I'm a person who is not looking for someone to pin the blame on, but a common ground where both Steve and Tony could (in the future) compromise. So if you're expecting me to simply point at someone and scream "It's your fault!", you'll be very disappointed. I'm not here for the plain "he's wrong", "he's right" debate. I have moved past that. I'm much more of a "why and how?" kind of person.
> 
> Emotions are messy, you guys. Pretending this is a simple matter just won't do.
> 
> Also, now is the time for the other members of Team Cap to speak up a little bit more - especially our favorite russian spy, most forgotten, who for some reason is also not having her actions analyzed enough for my personal taste. As someone who signed the Accords and then backed out, I'm sure she would have a lot to say about this subject. So, Natasha, you're up. A penny for your thoughts. 
> 
> Let's see what I can find beneath what I consider to be the most intriguing, but also the most unlikely duo ever presented in the MCU, Rogers and Romanov.
> 
> And in case anyone is wondering: what about Siberia? What about Bucky? Not going into that particular subject now, friends. Despite the reaction the mere mention of the Accords might inspire in you, looking closely, you will notice that there's actually not that many moments where the Accords conflict and the Bucky conflict truly overlap. I'm going to show you how. But don't worry. It'll come. We just have to make a quick visit to this particularly touchy topic before then. Before, you know, going into the subject that will for sure destroy us all.
> 
> And I'm starting a movement here. Let Steve Rogers swear 2k18. The man was a soldier in the WWII, for fucks sake Marvel. Let him swear.

(Looking back, he should’ve known Natasha would be the first.)

(She could claim to be cold hearted and detached as much as she liked, but she always had a soft spot for them.)

(For their family.)

 

The first week after is marked by an uneasy, almost suffocating silence.

Something has definitely shifted from the way it was before, disrupted from its original axis when Clint, Wanda and Scott left. Or maybe when Natasha brought them the news – and only now, when the rooms are suddenly just big enough for the three of them, and not terribly cramped, he can finally feel the way his breathing echoes against the walls when he’s alone, his enhanced hearing making his own sighs resonate like the sounds of missiles cutting through air; almost silent, always deadly, no matter if no one else can hear them. Like a looming threat that only he can hear.

Sometimes, like now, Sam sits with him in the silence, messing around with whatever he can get his hands on, a pen or an ashtray, or the piles of info they gather as they go in undercover missions, aiding in minor conflicts in every country they lay a foot on. They have quite a few of those, too.

Nothing too serious. They couldn’t do much, being in such a large group. They didn’t even have proper gear, making due with civilian clothes as they could, trying to blend in as much as possible. But now that there’s only three of them, Steve is sure they will get bolder, go deeper, act with more purpose – because he couldn’t make Wanda, who was still fragile, and Clint and Scott, who Steve still regrets to have brought to the fight, taking them away from their families, and get them back into conflict -, and it makes a strange kind of buzzing tingle beneath his bones, knowing he will go back to the fight, knowing he won’t be forced to stay still much longer.

At least, not completely. But he’ll take what he can get now.

It’s a feeling that is not quite anxiety, but it’s also not anticipation. It’s eager, but not comforting. Steve was never one for nervous ticks, but sometimes, he does feel the inexplicable urge to bounce his leg or twist his hands together, or keep _tapping on the goddamn flip phone_ , just to keep himself a little busier, trying to distract himself from the feeling of the need to stay alert for the inevitable action, a feeling he can never erase from deep inside of him.

It feels like an addiction. He doesn’t know how to stop it.

“We’re leaving a paper trail.” Sam said once, in good humor, ironically raising a handful of crumpled notes they collected over the last two countries they’ve been in. “Not really good for stealth, is it?”

“Don’t worry, we won’t leave anything behind.” Steve assures him, completely confident in his words, while he stares at the window, as if he could see Natasha return if he looked for her hard enough. But he can’t. Their room faces the outskirts of the city, close enough to an abandoned industrial complex that if the necessity arises, they would have a place to escape to. Their rooms are always right in the middle of the building, never top floor, never street level, because they need the option of running up _or_ down, in case of an ambush.

So many details that should be insignificant but aren’t anymore. A slowly building paranoia, an ugly feeling that he might one day snap his own neck for not being too careful while looking over his shoulder. It makes his skin crawl. He hasn’t felt like this since the war.

_No._

That’s not true.

He felt like this when SHIELD fell. He remembers it _vividly_ , every step and turn, every sting of pain inside his cheek where he would bite himself to keep the anger from climbing up his throat and coming out as a furious roar, a cry of anguish and fury every time the world around him tilted a bit more, losing all rhyme and sense, until he felt he could just slip over the edge and lose himself completely.

Every time he was told not to trust. Every time he realized the war never ended, it just learned how to disguise itself. How everyone was disguising themselves. Every single time it was like he couldn’t trust the ground, using only the momentum of his legs and the strength in his arms to keep himself standing.

Now, that same instinct is making him restless. Just before he can stop himself, his left leg bounces a bit, a quick jerk of his knees before he can force himself to stop before it develops into a full _pacing around the room mindlessly_ , like a caged animal.

“Not sure if this is the best way to keep track of everything, that’s all.” Sam shrugs, picking up the conversation, and Steve realizes he kind of tuned out on him for a second. “It’s not fair to Nat, you know? I feel kind of bad for her, because she’s the one responsible for bringing us intel. I feel like a freeloader and I don’t like it.”

“It’s fine, really.” Steve sighs, forcing himself to get back in the conversation. “Natasha isn’t the only one who’s cleaning up the evidence. SHIELD does have a training program for this kind of stuff.”

“And you learned to be a spy while you were there? Don’t get me wrong, man, but you’re not really big on the _being sneaky_ thing, are you?”

Steve huffs out a laugh, but it’s true. He does ignore stealth for the sake of quick action more often than not. But then, although Steve has never been one to prefer stealth, he’s not completely useless at it. If he was, he wouldn’t have gotten inside the Raft without Natasha. He probably wouldn’t even made it back to the United States.

But then again, who would go looking for him inside the country he’d just fled?

 _You_ are _sneaky, Cap. I’m impressed._

Steve shakes his head nervously, closing his eyes for a second, trying to push away the voices of both Tony and Natasha who whisper in his ears, like devils perched on his shoulders.

“Isn’t there a better way to do it, though?” Sam continues, and Steve is thankfully still paying attention this time. “Now that there’s just three of us, maybe we can get away with using with something more… efficient.”

“There is.” Steve concedes, leaning back on the couch, pretending to give in to a laziness he definitely doesn’t feel. “That’s why I’m thinking we should go back.”

“Back to where?” Sam asks.

“To Wakanda.”

Sam looks up at him, quick and sharp, and keeps quiet for a tentative second. He’s actually never been to Wakanda, none of them have besides Steve, but they know T’challa was the one who helped him and Bucky escape from Siberia. They don’t know all the details, mostly because Steve thought it would be better not to tell them, for T’Challa’s and Bucky’s sake, but they know enough.

He’s sure Sam is curious about it, especially after Steve came back to rescue them _alone,_ with Bucky nowhere in sight. Sam had tried to ask, but Steve dodged the question and they dropped the topic, even though the lack of Bucky’s presence by his side sometimes – most of the time – feels like there’s a huge part of himself missing, a puzzle piece he left behind knowingly, despite his wishes, and now fears it might not be there when he goes back.

But he doesn’t talk about it. He thought it would be for the best if no one else got involved in things they didn’t need to be. They had done enough. Far too many lines had been crossed already, and Steve would’ve liked to avoid any more unnecessary conflict or misunderstanding in the future. Who knows what they might lose next time? What if the next time it happens, it’s irreversible?

So then, Steve told them the basics. Bucky is in Wakanda. He is recovering. And he’ll be fine.

That is all they needed to know.

But now, things have changed.

A few hours ago, Steve was contacted by King T’Challa. Not through the phone, no, because Steve is still keeping that phone as an exclusive line to the USA; But through a special communicator princess Shuri had so kindly provided him. As a way to give him some assurance that Bucky would be fine, he presumes, but Steve never used it himself. He felt like it would be disrespectful to Bucky’s wishes, somehow. And it wouldn’t matter. Bucky was not around to answer the call. He knows princess Shuri would be the one to answer if he did try to call, but – Steve has been feeling way too wary, too hurt from _another call he can’t complete,_ to try to do this again.

He can wait for Bucky. He’ll give Bucky time to heal.

For all the hate Steve has for the idea of losing time, time is what Bucky needs.

And Steve was fine with that. But then, when he woke up this morning, a blinking light informed him someone on the other side was trying to reach him for a call. And when he opened de comm, what King T’Challa told him was this:

“Sergeant Barnes is awake. He said he would like to see you now.”

And Steve’s heart stutters a beat so powerful it hurts, too much adrenaline and nostalgia and pain and relief, too much all at once, and he’s glad the comm is a tiny device he can hold with an open palm, because if he had been using his fingers to hold it, the spasm his body suddenly gives would have crushed it under his fingertips.

“How long has he been awake?” he asks in a rush, before deciding _it doesn’t matter_ and instead going for “How is he?”

But T’Challa answers it anyway.

“He has been awake for a few months now.” He says calmly, and its like all air has been punched out of Steve’s chest, his lungs collapsing on themselves, and the tidal wave of emotions inside him only grows and grows, overwhelming and terrifying, completely silent under his skin. “But he asked for privacy, so we complied with his request.”

“And now he’s asking for me.” Steve says, and it’s not a question.

But it’s also not an accusation; and it’s also not relief. It’s something else. Something he can’t name. He can’t think through the haze of white noise that floods his ears, blocking all rational thought, too busy to think about anything other than _What should he do now? What is his mission now?_

But all T’Challa says is _yes_ , and it is more than enough for Steve.

He needs to go back.

Steve shakes his head, trying to will away the memory, and he realizes Sam is still watching him. He leaves the papers on the table, taking in a short breath before asking cautiously:

“All of us?”

“Clint and Wanda will follow later, but they’ll wait in Egypt. Scott decided to go to India for a while.”

“And you sure it’s fine letting him go around alone like that?” Sam asks very seriously, not in accusation, but in confirmation.

Truth be told, Steve is not particularly concerned with Scott. He’s worried, sure, because they’re all fugitives now and they don’t have the luxury of going anywhere without proper caution. But Scott is an adult, and more than that, he is an ex-fugitive as well. _Well, he’s a fugitive now too,_ but the point is that he has _experience_ in living in hiding. He knows how this goes. Probably more than any of them, save maybe Natasha. So he’s not worried; And he tells Sam that.

Because honestly, Steve doesn’t feel the need to keep Scott so close by. He will give him means to contact them in case he needs to, of course, but the fact is that out of all of them, Scott is probably the one who has the most chance of getting back home. The only thing he’s done wrong so far was to fight beside them in Leipzig. He doesn’t have the threat of the Accords looming over his head because he’s not an Avenger, although Steve can’t be sure how long that will last either. So, if he so decides, he can probably go home – and Steve would be fine with it. He really would. He’s not really comfortable with the idea of making Scott follow them around because of a problem that’s not really his. He has a family back in the USA. This is not his fight. Steve appreciates the help he gave them in Germany, stalling Tony so he and Bucky could escape to Siberia, but besides that he has no real obligation to follow them around or obey Steve’s orders.

If he decides to stay with them, Steve won’t object to it. But if he decides to leave, he won’t protest either. It’s Scott’s choice. Steve will be fine whatever that choice may be, because he understands that Scott has responsibilities other than the Avengers to worry about.

 _Clint does too,_ that dark corner of his minds reminds him, bitter and sharp, and he sighs tiredly.

And it makes him feel terrible, it really does, because this is… This is the worst thing that could have happened. He can wish as much as he wants to that this didn’t happen, but it did, and now everything feels wrong. But more than anything, he regrets bringing Clint and Scott into this. Because of their families. Steve knows Clint understands the need to prioritize the mission, that he is a soldier, just like Steve, deep down in his chest, but Steve’s not _stupid._ Laura had been an agent too, but she transitioned from that life to a civilian one with apparent ease. She fit in. And Clint’s children, still so young and innocent, they probably wouldn’t understand why Clint felt the need to help, despite his promise. Steve feared what could happen between all of them.

Broken promises hurt more than most things. Disappointment and betrayal have a very distinct flavor on the tongue, like ash and blood, and it doesn’t wash away over the years. It clings. It taints. And every time you swallow, it’s there, to make you remember, feeling like poison going down your throat, killing you slowly.

He reflexively gulps down on nothing, feeling that phantom sensation of blood between his gums once again, rubbing his palms together and leaning forward again, jittery all of a sudden, like a new rush of a drug entering his system. His leg starts to feel itchy again, and he can’t help but bounce it a little bit to take the edge off.

And then he hears it – coming down the hall, the familiar sound of low-heel boots approaching, in the exact cadence and weight he’s grown used to hear during these last few months, a tone he forced himself to know by heart, even if it was just to stop himself from rushing into action every time someone approached their hideouts.

_Natasha is back._

_Finally._

He’s been waiting for her. They have a rotation schedule going on, so twice a week each of them will go around whatever city they’re in, collecting intel on whatever local conflict they can find and making sure their tracks are being nicely covered. It seems to be working. It’s been four months since the last time they were mentioned on the news, and it was in a commentary during a CNN panel, during a discussion about the possibility of including new people to the Avengers to replace its missing members.

It wasn’t anything dangerous – nobody knew where they were, and that was all that mattered right now -, but he still thinks about that sometimes. Even though they ran, and even if he knew the possibility of new Avengers surging to fill the gap they left was true, he still felt like an Avenger. He still felt like he was part of it.

It still hadn’t happened yet. _But what if it did?_

Steve raises his gaze, feeling vulnerable in a very confusing way, and finds Sam’s eyes locked on him, assessing and careful. Steve suddenly realizes he’s been sitting silently for a while now, acting jittery out of nowhere, and Sam is probably wondering why he’s doing this, because he surely has never seen him like this before.

Because Steve doesn’t usually do this in front of people. He always waits until he is alone, like he waits to take the flip phone out of his pocket. He doesn’t know why he does this. But he feels like he _slipped_ , somehow, because Steve is so used to hold himself as still as a statue that when he feels jittery, it’s almost like is body has a mind of its own.

“You ok, man?” Sam asks, quietly, but when Steve hears the lock click he shifts his gaze to the door, just a second before it opens, and the sound is what startles Sam into looking backwards, successfully interrupting their entire conversation.

“Hey.” Natasha greets them as she slips into the room, silently closing the door behind her.

She comes in empty-handed, calmly and quietly. Somehow, it’s exactly this kind of thing that reminds him how deadly Natasha really is; because she doesn’t look like someone who is living on the run. She never does. Steve sure feels like it, and he probably looks like it too, but Natasha always seems completely unfazed by her circumstances.

But the silence tips him off, every time.

He knows something is wrong.

“Everything’s alright?” Sam leans back to rest his arm on the sofa, posture relaxed once he sees Natasha is no different than how she was when she left this morning. “We’re still cool? No one after us?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.” Natasha affirms flippantly, and Steve thinks he’s the only one who can hear how curt her words actually are. Sam doesn’t seem to notice. “But we should get moving soon. Maybe go to the next city.”

“I think we should go to Wakanda.” Steve tells her, immediately, and his tone comes off as a bit more rushed than he intended; But the jitters are driving him crazy. He takes off the communicator from his pocket and shows it to Natasha, as an explanation. “King T’Challa contacted me.”

“And he will just let us in the most secure place on Earth, just like that?” Natasha replies, arching her perfectly sculpted brows. “Why did he call?”

“Bucky is awake.”

He can see the moment the word _awake_ gives them all the information he didn’t before, and their eyes light up in realization; Then, curiosity, but they both hold back their questions and wait for him to proceed. When he doesn’t, a second later, they decide to do it for him.

“Is he alright?” Sam asks, suddenly cautious.

“Yes.” Steve assures him. “T’Challa’s sister, Shuri, was the one taking care of him. They helped him fight off the triggers.”

“And you sure he’s ok now?”

“I don’t know.” He admits, weakly, but hopefully. “But he’s better.”

“We can work with better.” Natasha says firmly. “Are you sure T’Challa is fine with us going there?”

“I am. I have the coordinates and the King’s permit, we can go in.”

“Ok.” Natasha exhales, dropping her shoulders, and then she takes a breath and widens her stance, as if she’s preparing for battle once more. “Pack our things. I’ll grab the Quinjet.”

And so they do.

_He’s going back to Bucky._

For a selfish moment, just for a while, Steve allows himself to think only about that for now.

 

Natasha, however, seems to have something on her mind.

She hasn’t been her usual self ever since they met inside the Raft, actually. Steve’s noticed. He knows she is not happy with their situation, but to be fair, neither is he. None of them are. They would all rather be home, training and helping people as they should, as they had done for years, with none of this Accords mess or feelings of betrayal hanging over all of their heads. They’re losing so much _time._ It makes Steve’s skin itch, the phone in his pocket getting heavier and heavier each and every day, a nagging sensation at the back of his head which never lets him rest peacefully.

Steve has seen the news. The public has taken to call their disagreement as the Avenger’s _Civil War._ It’s crazy. Crazy to see how many people are so ready to jump the gun and express opinions on their conflict without knowing how terrible the situation they found themselves in was. How many people are condemning them, condemning Tony, with absolutely no idea how hard it was to make a choice. They shouldn’t even have to _make_ a choice. They were just a group of people trying to do the right thing, to help others, because it’s what they should do; and they _can’t,_ because people are trying to hold them back, trying to push their own agendas into their hands and use them for selfish reasons.

They refused. And Natasha?

_She tried. She really had._

But she made her choice. She left. Steve thought that would be it, that she would accept that and never look back, as she always did, as _Steve_ did too, because looking back meant feeding the regret, being knocked over by sorrow and doubt, and he can’t have that; They don’t have any spare time to be wondering about _what if’_ s and _maybe_ ’s now that they’re on the run.

But for some reason, Natasha can’t seem to do it now. She, of all people, who could shed alliances and identities like an animal would leave behind its shell, adapting and surviving no matter the circumstance – she doesn’t seem to be able to move forward from this.

_And can you? Are you?_

(No.)

(Not really, is he?)

But he’s trying. He’ll be damned if he’s not trying.

“Nat.” Steve calls her, softly, hoping they would have a bit more privacy than this; But they are on the Quinjet, going back to Wakanda, and Sam is piloting just a few meters away. The Wakandan aircraft is so sophisticated and advanced it barely makes a sound, even from the inside, and Steve knows that if Sam strained is ears a little, he could probably hear everything. But he won’t. Sam will probably recognize Steve’s whispering tone as a silent wish for some discretion, and he will give them that.

But even then, Steve wishes he was alone with Natasha, just for this moment. He knows that vulnerability and Natasha is a very unpredictable combination, no matter how close they are, and he isn’t comfortable pushing these boundaries eve after years by her side. But he will push them. As kindly as he can, but he will, because Steve simply doesn’t know how to keep quiet in moments like this.

_I wish I could ignore it._

(No, you don’t.)

( _Liar._ )

“You know you can talk to me, right?” Steve asks gently, laying a hand on her bicep as softly as he can, making sure the gesture is so slow she could’ve easily swatted his hand away if she wished to. “If something’s bothering you.”

Natasha stares at him for a brief moment, eyes wide and face unguarded, and then- he sees when the shield falls into place, shutting him out completely. “Thanks.” She whispers back, not unkindly, but not amicably either. “But I’m fine, Cap.”

“Is there something wrong?” Steve insists.

Natasha lets out an elegant snort, so soft it almost sounds like a huff, but the mocking is as strong as it can be.

“What isn’t wrong, Steve?” she asks, a bit exasperated, her eyes anguished, and lips pressed in a thin line. But the moment barely lasts a second; She sniffles and shifts her gaze away, clearing her throat, turning her entire face away from him. “Don’t worry. I just got a lot on my mind.”

“We need you to be focused, Nat.” he says, unwilling to let this drop so easily. He keeps his tone calm and low, but his voice is firm, because he can take this lightly and simply turn away. “When we go back on the field. I’m not trying to force you into anything, but I need to know if we should be worried about something you’re not telling us.”

“I said it’s fine.” Natasha snaps back, turning her gaze back to his in a sudden motion. “It won’t be a problem on the job.”

Steve stares her down, but she doesn’t back down, as he knew she would, so all he can do is bring himself to his full height and ask, in a very dry tone. “But it’ll be a problem?”

Natasha stares back.

“I guess we’ll see.” Is what she says, and she leaves it at that.

 

When they enter Wakanda, Steve can hear the soft _wow_ that escapes both Natasha and Sam at the sight, even if it’s just a sigh under their breaths. Honestly, he shares the sentiment. Wakanda _is_ breathtaking, and now Steve is actually _looking_ and admiring it, even more so. 

He feels so incredibly relieved for being here. He hasn’t been here since he went back for the team, forcefully putting some distance between himself and Bucky, as princess Shuri asked him to. He doubts she meant something so extreme, but Steve felt like it was necessary, or else—or else he wouldn’t have been able to do it. He knows he can’t think clearly whenever Bucky is involved, his deep-seated instincts to keep him close and safe sometimes making him careless, but now he’s trying hard to give Bucky the space he needs. Or he was.

But Bucky asked for him, so he’s coming back. No questions asked.

 _(_ Careless, indeed.)

(But will you ever not be like that? For him?)

(No, you won’t)

( _No, you don’t_.)

Only Sam and Natasha are going with him. Clint, Wanda and Scott only nod and make agreement noises when he informs them, understanding; but Sam never cared much for Steve’s whole _it’s complicated, are you sure you want to get involved_ thing. He doesn’t back down just because Steve is being defensive, if he thinks it’s important. He’s respectful, but he never allows that respect to become passiveness. Steve really admires him for it.

So when Steve comes back to the front of the Quinjet, leaving Natasha by the small cargo set they brought after she completely shut him out, and sits by the co pilot chair, Sam looks at him out of the corner of his eyes, assessing.

“You know… I was wondering where he was.” He comments, and his playful tone makes very clear he’s fine with it, but the fact he can’t resist the urge to take a jab at Steve only serves to show that Sam will now _insist_ in knowing the details about this arrangement with T’Challa and Bucky. “I didn’t think you would leave him anywhere, and that thing about how _he’s safe_ and _it’s fine_ did seem a little too vague for me.”

Steve takes a breath before admitting, kinda somberly. “He was back in cryo.”

“By choice?”

“Yeah.” Steve gulps, forcing the memory of Bucky’s broken expression back to the corner of his mind as it surges uninvited. “T’Challa’s sister, princess Shuri, offered him to go back under while she worked on… erasing the HYDRA triggers from his mind.”

“And now he’s fine?” Sam asks hopefully.

“I don’t know. I didn’t see him since he went back under.”

And it killed him every single day, to be perfectly honest. But he won’t say that. And he won’t say how terrible it makes him feel, how weak and small, like the world is pushing him down again.

It’s not rational. He knows it.

_He’s just a kid from Brooklyn._

(But you’d do whatever he needed you to. Because that’s just you, isn’t it?)

(You can’t ignore it.)

“Well.” Sam sighs. “Let’s hope he’s feeling…” He makes a vague gesture with his hand, swaying his head from side to side in an overly dramatic manner.

“Better?” Steve suggests.

“I was going to say ‘less murderous’, but sure, let’s go with that.” Sam huff out a laugh, throwing Steve a playful look, and Steve allows himself a weak chuckle, shaking his head in mocking disbelief.

They don’t speak after that, but Steve kinda wishes they did.

His thoughts are a dangerous territory these days. Especially when Bucky is concerned.

He could use a distraction.

_But the mission takes precedence._

(You had seventy years of rest.)

(Maybe that’s why you can’t stop, now.)

Oh, but he knows that is not true.

_You don’t stop_

_Because you just don’t know how._

 

Once they’ve passed the barrier that hides Wakanda from the world, finding the King’s palace is not difficult. Even though the entire nation is opulent and mesmerizing, the palace - _the king’s home_ – will forever stand out. Steve guides Sam there easily, and in no time at all the Quinjet is being lowered on the landing platform, with absolutely no interference, as the king had promised them it would.

They have very little belongings with them, but they grab it all as they leave, and they’re greeted by the sight of T’Challa’s personal guard, the Dora Milaje, all standing close to end of the platform, seemingly at ease. But even so, Steve does feel the kind of threat they impose, just by being present. He knows their presence is not something personal – they are the royal guard, and it’s perfectly logical that they should be present when a strange plane enters the palace territory – but even if he passes them with no hesitation, he can feel their analyzing and assessing as he does, and it does make him more alert, adrenaline pumping back into his veins, like his body is using whatever excuse it can get to make him feel distressed.

Behind the Dora Milaje is T’Challa himself, accompanied by his sister and his mother, and he stands noble and patient by the entrance to the palace. They approach him slowly, in steady steps, almost cautiously, and T’Challa takes a few steps forward to meet them halfway; In a gesture that feels much more significant than it looks.

“Captain.” King T’Challa greets him amicably, with a nod, and then he does the same to Sam and Natasha. “Mr. Wilson. Agent Romanov.”

“Your Highness.” All three of them greet at the exact same time − but then, Natasha immediately keeps talking, her tone incredibly respectful and professional, even if a little rushed. “Thank you for allowing us entrance. We understand the delicate position you’re in, as a King, to grant fugitives access to your nation.”

T’Challa takes a breath, inclining his head towards Natasha’s direction, as if he’d been expecting this. When he speaks, his words are slow, considerate, and very carefully planned:

“Yes. I can imagine why you might think I would deny you entry in my country, Agent Romanov. But there is no need to worry. I had no part in your dispute. Whatever conflict remains between you and your friend in America, it is a matter that concerns only your team. The Black Panther is not an Avenger. I take no sides in this fight.”

“None of those things are related to your position as a king, Your Highness.” Natasha jabs back, giving him a tense smirk with the corner of her lips, making her seem almost sheepish.

T’Challa makes a pause, thoughtful, and the air between them suddenly feels stifling and tense. He gives a hum, that hum, the one that always makes Steve feel like he’s being stared down through a microscope in a mere second; And Steve immediately feels his hackles rising up, the tick in his jaw painful and tight, the grinding of his teeth loud in his own ears.

Though this time, T’Challa’s assessing gaze is focused completely on Natasha, and Steve looks at her discretely, trying not to make it too obvious for T’Challa how _unhappy_ he is with her attitude. This is not the time for this. Natasha is clearly emotionally compromised about something, something she won’t let Steve or Sam help her with, and throwing bitter words at the King of Wakanda is not the way to act, if you know you’re already imposing on someone’s hospitality. She sounds _petulant_ , and Steve can’t approve that right now.

She doesn’t spare him a glance. She holds her ground in front of the king, pushing her chest out and keeping her head raised, as if she’s preparing for a punch. But whatever it is that she is waiting from T’Challa, all she receives is this answer, quiet, in an almost mourning tone:

“And as a King… My reasons are not nearly as simple as my actions as the Black Panther.” He pauses, because his words sound so heavy Steve can imagine how he feels them on his tongue, the same way they all do when they talk about it, unable to ignore.  “Right and wrong are rarely so easy to define, Agent Romanov. I cannot blame you for acting as you think it’s right. I can only hope you don’t regret the choice you make.”

And it catches her off guard, so much Steve sees the flash of hurt in her eyes so clearly he’s sure both T’Challa and Sam saw it too. And she doesn’t pull it back, once it does. It’s almost like it floods her and she can’t hold it in, taking a blow straight through the heart, exposing her feelings like an open wound in a single moment of vulnerability.

It’s like watching her implode. Steve almost takes a step forward, he’s not sure why – to put himself between Natasha and T’Challa? To grab her arm and… what? Ask her what this is all about? Ask her if she’s ok? Tell her to stop? -, but he doesn’t have the chance to act before Natasha moves.

She swallows back her emotions, clenching her jaw and squaring her stance, nodding curtly at T’Challa, and the king considers her for a moment with a soft gaze before nodding back and turning on his heels, calmly making his way back inside. Sam and Steve immediately turn their heads to look at her once T’Challa has turned his back, but she simply grips her bag tighter and follows him, unwilling to give them an opening to ask about _whatever the hell that was._

“That went well.” Sam murmurs, exhaling heavily, before throwing Steve a worried glance and picking up his own belongings, picking up his pace to follow them into the palace.

Steve clicks his teeth together, feeling uncomfortable and adrift, like he’s _losing something_ once again, but he can’t say exactly what it is. He follows them inside, silent, but not satisfied.

He’ll find a way to get Natasha alone later.

It’s very clear they need to talk.

 

Later that same day, Shuri tells him Bucky is not actually in the palace.

“He hasn’t been staying here for a few weeks now.” She informs him, as she walks him outside, with two of the Dora following them a few meters behind, relaxed, but observing. “I though he would like some space for himself, so he’s staying in a village a few miles away. But no one else has permission to go there, so we sent the General to bring him here. You can wait by the garden if you’d like. He says he finds it relaxing.”

Steve gives her a half embarrassed, half amused smile. “He was probably joking about that.”

“Oh, I know.” Shuri says confidently, giving him a look that is full of mirth. “That’s why we had him walking here every day for the first few weeks. Might as well learn to admire the flowers, now he’s already here.”

Steve genuinely, honest-to-God chuckles, because he’s just so _relieved._ He’s so grateful for Shuri’s help, despite her insistence in keeping them apart at first. It’s not like doesn’t understand where she was coming from – it was just… difficult to accept, when she said it. He was still feeling so raw from the loss. From the fight. Keeping Bucky around made him feel like he was _home_ , he was safe, and Steve really didn’t want to give that up. He had felt like she was trying to push him away from Bucky again, like the entire world had.

Now, he doesn’t feel bitter. He feels hopeful. He wants to believe everything will be fine, so hard it makes his heart beat a little bit faster, and he keeps his hands very still at his side in a conscious effort to stop himself from fidgeting with pent up nervous energy.

“I’m just glad to know he’s doing better.” He says, because he is. He really is. But just hearing it is not enough; he has to see it, to see Bucky, to give him a hug and tell him everything is going to be fine and _believe it himself_ this time around.

“He is. The triggers are gone. The memories aren’t, but he can learn how to live with them. He will be better.” Shuri sighs lightly, holding her hands behind her back, in a posture that makes her seem much more innocent that Steve knows she really is.

It’s an interesting detail, he realizes. Shuri is so smart it’s very easy to forget she is much younger than he is, still holding onto that bright-eyed, hopeful ideals about the world. No matter how mature she might be, it’s very difficult for someone her age to be so… so much like _him._ Someone who doesn’t have that much strength to believe in much anymore. It feels refreshing to see her, the way she exudes calm and tranquility, her mind fast but steady, and her manners sweet but imposing. It’s a powerful combination. Steve is sure both her family and her country are very proud of her.

“And you, Captain?” Shuri suddenly asks, turning to him from where she was standing in front of a bush of brightly colored flowers. “Are you better?”

Steve is not sure how to answer that, honestly.

“I’m trying to be.”

“Good.”  She nods at him, giving him a small smile. “You need time to heal as well.”

 _What from?_ He almost asks.

(But he knows the answer, so he doesn’t.)

“Go on, sit.” Shuri instructs him, gesturing to the bench behind them, made in heavy, dark stone, surrounded by an arch of delicate yellow flowers, vines woven around the tall columns of this gigantic glasshouse. It’s beautiful. The colors are so vibrant they’re almost hypnotizing. “You can wait here. He won’t take long.”

Steve does step closer to the bench without even thinking about it, but he doesn’t sit, looking around nervously every few seconds.

“Relax.” Shuri chuckles, waving her hand at him, insisting that he sits down. “He’ll be here. I will be back inside, ok? Let us know if you need anything. You can call someone if you want to.”

And then, she points up, and Steve follows her finger only to realize this part of the glasshouse it’s connected to the inside of the palace – and there is something that looks like a viewing gallery a few meters away. It’s an entire wall made of glass, allowing the view of a long corridor about two floors up, that was obviously created to allow a scenic view of the entire garden, even the part that’s far away, where the glasshouse just opens up to a huge balcony that allows a view of the entire field behind the Wakandan palace. It must be beautiful. Even from down here, at this hour, the setting sun makes the rays bleed through the glass roof and bathe the multi-colored garden in an almost ethereal light, making the small part of Steve that is still an artist at its core sing in delight. The reds and the yellows against the bright green of the leaves, the unusual colors of a particularly large flower that grows much taller than all the others, like the crowning jewel of the garden. He can only imagine what it looks like from up there. It’s probably breathtaking. He imagines Bucky was most certainly joking about finding this place relaxing, because Bucky was never one to stop and admire the scenery like Steve is, but if there is one place on Earth that might’ve changed his mind, it would be this garden.

But that line of thought lasts only for a moment. Looking closer, he sees that the corridor is not empty – there is a small area up there decorated with sofas and tables, like a small lounge, where he imagines people can sit and watch the sunset from inside the palace if they wish to. Right now, Sam is sitting in one of those chairs. He’s admiring the garden – probably because he can’t help it, because of how beautiful it is –, but every once in a while, his eyes flicker in Steve’s direction, and then wander around as if they’re trying to find something.

 _Bucky,_ his minds offers _._ Sam’s posture is relaxed, but he doesn’t seem completely at ease. Steve wonders if he should assure Sam that he’ll be fine, and then, he wonders if it would even make a difference. _Probably not._

So, Shuri is probably going to wait up there with him. Keeping an eye on Steve. Or Bucky.

Or both. He’s not sure.

(Probably him.)

(Steve doesn’t think it’s a coincidence Shuri is being accompanied by two of the Dora Milaje.)

(He doesn’t think she would be followed around by the guards when she’s still inside of the palace. Not if they weren’t here.)

Steve looks back at princess Shuri, waiting for her to continue talking, but she doesn’t. With a parting nod, she turns around and makes her way back inside, the two Dora guards following her automatically. Steve watches her go awkwardly, confused, because he’d been expecting more… _interrogation?_ No. Curiosity, maybe. But _something_ more. Shuri’s eyes are clever and sharp, taking in every detail of his posture and his speech, and he knows it, he simply knows she’s filing all that information for later for some reason.

Is this a thing that simply runs in their family? This uncanny ability to make him feel scrutinized so deeply that he seems to be see-through? Or is it just the discomfort, the uneasiness and the shame coiling in his guts that make him feel that way, feel shame for not having handled this better, not being able to fix this all by himself, as he wishes he could?

He would’ve done it, if he thought he could. He would have fixed everything. And every time he realizes he _can’t_ it makes him feel small again, useless and fragile, not being able to fight his battles and _win._

_He just wants everything to be fine._

_Why can’t things just be fine for once?_

He stands there helplessly, immovable, and Shuri is almost back inside when she suddenly turns around excitedly, her entire face lighting up in joy, shocking him for a second.

“Don’t forget I still have your suit!” She yells, cupping her hands around her mouth unnecessarily, smiling wide as she walks backwards. “Let me know when you want it back. I’ll give you some upgrades!” And the she waves enthusiastically, a wide smile on her lips, her eyes gleaming with the idea of giving him a little piece of her tech for him to try.

(Reminds you of someone, doesn’t she?)

_Shut up._

He waves at her, politely, and doesn’t move besides that because he really doesn’t know what to do. As soon as she’s out of his sight, his hand drops awkwardly, a slow and unsure movement, until his arm is limp at his side, feeling suddenly twice as heavy. In fact, his _whole body_ suddenly feels like that.

Steve sighs. Then, he sits on the bench, and he waits.

_Just like he always does._

 

(Bucky is the second.)

(And he doesn’t even know.)

 

He doesn’t know how long he waits. It was probably just for a few minutes, but it felt like hours. He’s not sure. His perception of time is not the best now after so many months on the run, losing himself to a measure of time that is not based on hours or minutes, but on the awareness of the population around them; and now he’s here, in a place where everyone knows who he is and he doesn’t have to hide, he’s definitely feeling thrown off. He tries to breathe in deep and enjoy the sweet aroma of the flowers, to observe the way the sun goes through the paper-thin leaves and reflect on the ground, trying to lose himself in thoughts of hues and tones, but it’s useless.

He can’t focus. He feels like uncapped wire, ready to be set aflame at the slightest touch, to ignite in energy and explosion at the smallest opportunity to do so.

All he can do is wait. Force himself still. Tel himself everything is fine.

The sound of footsteps approaching is what snaps him back to attention, making him leave the bench in a jerk, rising to his feet immediately. But he doesn’t move. His feet won’t let him. His muscles are suddenly turned into stone, locked up tight in a strange mix of _elation_ and _mistrust_ , the urges to push forward and scoot back battling inside him, his heart so scared, so foolish, so worried for what is about to happen.

And then he sees him.

Suddenly, he is right there. He’s not alone, because Steve can see a guard a few meters behind him – _General Okoye,_ his mind supplies, in a small and almost inaudible voice at the very back of his head -, but Bucky is the only one coming forward, almost timidly, in Steve’s direction.

He looks _different._  He’s the same, but he isn’t. His hair is still the same length, his stubble just as it was before – but his eyes seem less cloudy, less terrified, less hazy. He feels _present_. The clothes he’s wearing are new, clearly some sort of Wakandan traditional attire, something that Steve doesn’t know the name of; and he looks comfortable, at ease, like he probably hasn’t been in the last 70 years.

It makes his chest ache. He is _fine._

“Buck?” Steve asks dumbly, feeling a little lightheaded, the great dam that holds back his emotions overflowing with relief and happiness, his eyes stinging with unshed tears.

Bucky stops in his tracks, looking up at him, his blue eyes wide and soft, just like he remembers from before. He smiles, slow and shy, with just a little hint of mischief, a smile that is so _Bucky_ that if Steve wasn’t sure this was him, he is sure _now._ “Steve.”

“ _Bucky._ ” Steve exhales, feeling breathless, and he steps forward and envelops his best friend in a tight hug before he can even think about it. “It’s good to see you, buddy.”

Bucky is solid and warm in his arms. Steve can feel the way his body shakes when he chuckles, putting his arm around Steve’s back, holding him close. “You too.” He says in something like a sigh, happy. “Shuri told me you went on a mission while I was under. Good to see you’re still in one piece.”

Steve chuckles too, although what he’s feeling is something more akin to hysteria than actual humor, but he doesn’t think it makes a difference. “Yeah.” He agrees, the words flowing out of him before he can think about them, his whole façade just crumbling at Bucky’s feet, leaving him completely unguarded. “The team was… They were in a rough spot. I went to get them out.”

Bucky’s eyebrows immediately scrunch together in a frown. “Were they arrested?”

 _Shit._ That’s not what Steve wanted. He didn’t want this conversation to turn sour so quickly. He wanted a peaceful moment with his best friend, just this time, just one moment where they could forget the world and act like this was still 1940 and they had nothing else to worry about but each other. Just a little sliver of normalcy. One single conversation where they could pretend the world outside isn’t raging in fire every single second of the day, that their connections with all others haven’t been destroyed or damaged in some sort of way. Just one. Just _once._ A single moment in time where they both could pretend to be okay.

(But you just couldn’t help it, could you?)

(Tragedy has been carved so deep inside you.)

(You couldn’t _help it._ )

He tells himself that he’s just being honest. He has to be honest with Bucky. But he _hates himself_ for doing it anyway.

So, he pushes his lips into a thin line, and nods curtly, hoping uselessly that Bucky won’t push the subject.

“You broke in, didn’t you?” it’s what he says to that, sounding just a bit resigned, and just a bit affectionate.

“What was I supposed to do?” Steve immediately jabs back, aiming for the assured tone he used to have when Bucky caught him fighting guys twice his size in an alleyway, but the attempt falls incredibly flat. He just sounds sad. He sounds defeated. “Leave them there?”

“Please tell me you didn’t go with your uniform, we don’t need no more wars between the States and Germany.”

“No, I wasn’t in my uniform.” Steve steps back, shaking his head, and he and Bucky promptly start a slow walk around the garden, aimlessly weaving through the corridors of flowers in a very lazy pace.

It seems like neither of them is being able to sit still these days. He should’ve figured.

That might be the reason why he keeps going. He’ll tell himself it’s honesty. He’ll tell himself it’s fine. And although something inside him is begging him to just _stop it_ , stop hitting those same keys over and over again because they’re not helping, him or Bucky, to recover from this. Bucky doesn’t need to hear it. It’ll only make it worse. Steve knows how hard Bucky can blame himself for things he’s not guilty of now, after the Winter Soldier. He should be avoiding this.

(But you won’t.)

(What’s the use of lying to yourself?)

“And they weren’t in Germany.” Steve admits, heavy-hearted.

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up. “They weren’t? Who got them?”

“They were sent back to the US. They were keeping them in Cuba.”

“You _went back!?_ ” Bucky asks loudly, but then the words finally catch up to him and he blinks owlishly. “Wait. That doesn’t make sense. Cuba?”

“There is—” Steve chokes on air, suddenly feeling overwhelmed, and he has to discretely clear his throat and look away to keep his composure as he tells Bucky about this. “There is a prison there. For superhumans. A hidden place in the middle of the ocean. It’s… _wrong._ ”

“So they were ready for it, huh?” Bucky huffs, weakly, looking at his feet. “They were ready in case something out of their control happened.”

Steve immediately feels the urge to reassure Bucky, because he _knows_ what Bucky’s thinking. He’s thinking about the glass container they put him into when he was arrested in Bucharest. He’s thinking about the heavy metal shackles and the isolation, about being helpless as Zemo invaded the place and messed with his mind. It makes Steve’s hackles rise so quickly he can feel himself building up like a giant wall, ready to plant himself between Bucky and whatever may come to hurt him. But it’s useless. It’s a memory, not a threat. It’s nothing he can stop just by using his fists.

So he has to use his words alone.

“I wasn’t going to let anyone stay in there.” Steve assures him.

But by the way Bucky looks at him, it’s not enough.

(Such a shame your words are never as efficient as your actions.)

“I know.” Bucky sighs, turning his head to the side, raising his hand to brush his fingertips to the petals of a light pink flower, so small and delicate it could simply disintegrate if touched too harshly. Bucky’s touch is so gentle it barely moves the flower when he brushes against it. “But I get it. Where else would they put us? The bigger the threat, the stronger the cage.”

Steve burns with fury. Not because of Bucky – no, never -, but because of everything that’s happened _to him_ , all that’s has been _done_ to him, that made him this way. Insecure about who he is. Feeling guilty for things that are not his fault. The villains controlled him and the world refused to see that, making him believe he is the mindless monster the stories say he is, when that couldn’t be further from the truth. He is not _evil._ He is not a monster.

“We’re not a threat.” Steve says, curt and firm, believing it to his very core, wishing Bucky could see it as easily as he can. Bucky is not a threat, not anymore. He’s in control of himself. The Soldier is gone. None of them are threats now, they are just people trying to do what’s right.

They are not threats.

_What about Bruce?_

He gets whiplash from his own thought process for a second, his subconscious taking him off guard not for the first time in this many months. He _knows_ his mind is a dangerous place. Steve was so used to have echoes and white noise going around up there all the time, an endless cacophony he can’t turn off, ever since he was brought back from the ice and thrown into this electric, exhausting future; And now silence is his biggest company, there are so many thoughts he just pushed at the back of his head coming to the surface when he least expects them to, to fill the void the white noise left behind.

So he’s caught off guard.

What _about_ Bruce?

Whenever he thinks about the Raft, Steve’s thoughts immediately go to Wanda. It’s obvious why. The memory of her small frame being swallowed by the straight-jacket, the collar around her neck, like she as an animal; the way her body trembled with fear and exhaustion. Her eyes looked _hollow._ It will haunt him forever, and he can only imagine what that will do to _her_ , how many terrible feelings must have resurfaced from her time as a HYDRA experiment. He will never forgive them for it. The way they treated a kid like a damn criminal, like they all treated his teammates as animals.

But that’s… That’s not what he’s thinking about now.

Something else came up to his mind when Bucky said _cage._ It’s… very specific. It’s something so old he barely remembers it – even though he knows it happened just a few years ago, it feels so much older, so long ago in time -, but the vision of a _gigantic glass cage_ is what snaps him back to the memory, the sour taste of it blooming back in his tongue, the bitterness associated with it coming back all at once.

New York, all those years ago. When Loki came. SHIELD had a reinforced glass cage designed for _Bruce_ , for the Hulk, in case they couldn’t control him. Steve had hated it then, and he hates it now. It’s just wrong. It’s immoral to trap a human being in such a cruel confinement, and he stands by that belief. But why doesn’t it sound as simple as it did then? Why is he thinking about this?

(You know why.)

( _Liar._ )

Steve… Steve didn’t complain when they put Loki inside that thing. _That’s because Loki was a murderous bastard_ , he argues with himself, _and he deserved it_.

Which he did. _He did._ But now he’s thinking about it, if that cage hadn’t existed, where else would’ve they put Loki? It’s the only other moment in Steve’s memory where they actually _caught_ the threat before it was completely destroyed. They had destroyed Ultron. The Chitauri fell. All other threats they had dealt with were baseline humans, for the most part. The ones who weren’t – _Wanda and Pietro_ – had switched sides. There was never the need to have a special cell to hold anyone.

They had never _caught_ the threat. Loki was the only one.

_And where had they put him? In a giant glass cage._

_Like an animal._

He remembers Wanda’s collar. It sounds like a better solution, but it isn’t, not really. It’s a way to neutralize her; but in a way that still dehumanizes her. Still makes her seem like an animal. It’s a dead end. And he’s only realizing it now. He resented the Raft, and, by some extension, he resented Tony for helping the Raft to become what it is, but – if there was ever the need to lock someone stronger than them up, where would’ve they done it?

(How did Fury put it?)

_The world is filling up with people that can’t be matched._

_We are hopelessly, hilariously outgunned._

(Wasn’t it?)

_They weren’t guns. They aren’t weapons._

(You need to be stopped, Cap. How else would they do it?)

(No one was killed.)

(You were restrained.)

_It’s still wrong!_

(So how would you do it?)

Steve cuts himself off right there. This is ridiculous. He shouldn’t be thinking about this. This is not about the Raft. This is about Bucky, about them, and it’s time he puts this behind him.

“They were ready.” Steve concedes, but there’s absolutely no emotion in his voice as he says it. He feels so _numb._ “But none of us belong there. _None_ of us.”

Bucky drops his hand, turning back to him, with a small smile on his face.

He wants to believe Steve. He really does.

_So why don’t you, Buck?_

_Why don’t you just trust me on this?_

“You’re a good guy, Stevie.” Bucky says kindly, patting him on the shoulder. “Never change.”

Steve drops his head, shy, angry, resigned, tired, relieved, all at once. It’s no use. A mess of emotions stirring inside, confusing and terrifying feelings he can’t contain, a hurricane he chooses to ignore in favor of focusing on the _now,_ on the hand on his shoulder, lying to himself and saying it will get better.

(But it’s getting harder and harder to push it back.)

(And one of these days)

(He’s going to regret it.)

 

They steer the conversation to another direction after that, deliberately avoiding all topics that might be too painful to approach. They talk for hours. It’s hard to keep the conversation light after that kind of beginning, but they do try. They talk about Bucky himself, and how he feels. They talk about Wakanda. They talk about time. 

They talk until after the sun has gone down. It feels good. He feels understood, like he hasn’t been ever since he woke up, not quite belonging but _close_ , closer he’s ever gotten in this strange new era. But it has to end.

(It always has to end.)

“We should take a break.” Bucky laughs, his voice a little gruff and scratchy from all the talking. “I’m hungry.”

So is Steve, but he’s not comfortable admitting it. But still, he laughs and nods, and they both get up and walk back inside side by side, as it always should have been, their pace perfectly in sync, as it always was.

By that point, Steve has forgotten they were being watched. He lost himself to the conversation, shutting off the entire world beyond the garden, allowing himself to exist only at that place, at that time, just for a little while. And it worked, sort of. But know the illusion has been shattered, and as soon as they walk post a door into the corridors of the palace, princess Shuri is there, waiting for Bucky with a kind smile of her face.

“Mr. Barnes.” She says as a greeting, stepping forward.

“I told you to call me Bucky.”

“You must be hungry.” Shuri says, completely ignoring Bucky’s comment. “Come, we prepared a guest room for you. We can all meet at the dining room later, but you can get ready first.” She then gestures to the right with her hand, suggesting Bucky should go in front of her, and Bucky shoots Steve an inquiring look.

 _See you later?_ , he’s asking.

 _Yes_ , Steve nods at him. _Later._

So Bucky goes, accompanied by Shuri. Once again, Steve watches them until they vanish from his sight, and he wonders if this is becoming a habit of his, watching people walk away from him, and feeling weird about it when they do.

(Depressive, much?)

_Shut up, Tony._

He hears another set of footsteps approaching, and he doesn’t need to turn around to know they are Sam’s. But he does it anyway, and he finds Sam right beside him with his arms crossed when he does, his posture a weird mix of leisurely and imposing at the same time. “So, we’re cool? Everything’s fine?”

“Yeah. It’s fine.”

“Good.” Sam nods, as if that’s all he needed to hear. But then, he pauses. “So… Where is that badass metal arm of his? Didn’t think he would just take it out while he’s on a walk.”

And that’s when Steve remembers. He hasn’t told them. Not all of it.

About Siberia. About Tony _._

“Tony destroyed it during the fight.” It’s all he says, trying to be as concise as possible. He told them they fought. That Zemo was there and he manipulated them into a fight; But he never told them how. Going into details felt wrong, like exposing something Bucky feels so terrible about—

( _Liar_.)

He feels _shame_ when he thinks about Siberia. It’s strange. So strange. It’s a memory jumbled with too many conflicting feelings, all so meshed together he is not quite sure he can name them properly. He doesn’t know where his anger ends and his resignation begins, or where is the line separating his sorrow from his disappointment. He can’t pinpoint the details about it. All he knows is that there is _shame_ , visible and inescapable, and it’s not an emotion Steve knows how to deal with very well.

“What do you mean, destroyed it?” Sam asks, alarmed.

“He blew it up with a repulsor blast.”

Sam uncrosses his arms suddenly, is entire body going tense. “What the hell, man?” He exclaims, sounding offended. “What happened there? You told me you three fought and you escaped, and that was it. Now you’re telling me Stark blew the guy’s arm like fireworks and you didn’t think it was worth mentioning?”

Steve rubs his hand over his face, wishing he could just walk away from this conversation and never talk about it again. But he can’t. Sooner or later, he’ll have to tell them.

( _Don’t bullshit me, Rogers._ )

_Shut **up** , Tony._

“It’s not… easy to explain.”

Sam is not having any of his attempts of deflection. He keeps pushing it. “He was trying to kill you or trying to bring you in?”

“He wasn’t trying to bring us in.” Steve answers.

_But was he trying to kill you?_

(He−)

“So he was trying to kill you.” Sam concludes, adjusting his stance to make himself seem wider, voice sounding angry.

“No.”

(Was he? Wasn’t he?)

_He followed them to Siberia to help. He broke the Accords so he could help._

But they fought.

_Zemo’s fault. The video. The taunt. Zemo’s fault._

Tony didn’t mean to hurt them. He meant to help.

But then…

(Can you even be sure?)

“Then what _happened_ , Steve?” Sam inquires exasperated.

Steve is so damn _tired_ of this. He can’t rest. He can’t forget. He has gotten so good at putting aside his needs to focus on the mission over the years, so good at ignoring the chaos storming inside him when he can’t find his footing in the world, why can’t he do it _now?_ What is it about this, about this fight, about this moment, that he can’t let go of!?

He has survived _worse_. His life… His life being hell is nothing new. Pushing through when the world tells him no is what he _does._

Why can’t he let go of this?

“Zemo used _Bucky_.” He blurts out, curt and brute, almost hissing the words at Sam. “He provoked us. There was—” and he chokes, his tongue swelling in his mouth, heavy and tasting like ash and blood and the damn poison he makes himself swallow every single day. “There was a video.”

“A video?” Sam parrots unimpressed.

“Of the Winter Soldier.” Steve lowers his head on instinct, feeling stupid for the way his emotions spiral out of control when he thinks about it, and he has to step aside and turn his body away from Sam, turning to the glass wall, to give himself the illusion that he is not completely exposing his aching heart to his friend as he confesses this. “Killing Tony’s parents.”

The reaction is immediate— and at the back of his head, Steve hears a sound similar to a explosion, loud and brash, like a _repulsor blast_ , something he doesn’t know if it’s a memory of just his imagination, an echo of a forgotten ghost, that still haunts him when he drops his guard.

Sam flinches and his entire body deflates like a balloon, and he has to change position to regain his footing, lowering his voice as if he’s afraid to talk about it out loud. “Are you serious?” Steve nods, and Sam takes a step back as if he’d slapped him. “ _Shit._ That’s… Holy shit, man.”

Sam is rendered completely speechless. Steve knows what that feels like. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Sam paces around like a madman, rubbing his head as if it hurts, staring blankly at the ground and muttering curses under his breath.

“So when Stark saw that…?” he pauses, giving Steve the cue to continue; to confirm his suspicions for him, because he can’t say them out loud.

“He attacked Bucky.” Steve confirms, solemnly.

“ _Fuck._ ” Sam whispers, appalled. “Why didn’t you tell us this?”

“I didn’t know how.”

“Steve. This is the kind of stuff you have to _tell your friends_. How did you-- Did you really walk around hiding that from us for nine months? How many hours of sleep have you lost because of this?”

_No more than he’s lost because of everything else._

(You don’t sleep much anymore, do you?)

(Too scared of not waking up.)

“I didn’t know how to tell you.” Steve admits, and it’s painful to do so. It feels like pulling teeth. Steve doesn’t really know how to be vulnerable; He has spent most of his life making sure no one would ever see him when he is. Exposing himself, putting his feelings on the line for the judgment and scrutiny of others, even of his friends, is something he still hasn’t learned how to do.

_If he ever will._

“Nevermind, it’s… I get it. It’s really not—” Sam exhales harshly, pushing all the air out of his lungs in a very exaggerated gesture, as if he could push the terrible thoughts about it along with it, expelling it from his body. “It’s not easy. I get that.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say, so he just doesn’t say anything.

It’s been months, and he still doesn’t know how to feel about it. So he just… _waits._

(Tick, tick, tick.)

( _What will you do?_ )

“Is Barnes alright?” Sam asks, as gently as he can. “Does he… does he remember?”

Steve sighs, sounding so damn broken. “I didn’t ask him myself. But when Tony saw, he asked… Bucky told him he remembered all of them. All the victims.”

“ _Jesus._ ” Sam breathes out shakily “That’s going to mess him up forever. Can’t even imagine what that must feel like. I’m so sorry.”

So is Steve.

But what can he do?

How can he fix this? How can he make this better?

It seems like Steve broke through whatever walls Sam had with this admission, because suddenly, Sam can’t stop talking. His mind is running at the speed of light right before his eyes, connecting dots and analyzing memories, trying to make sense of it all through the shock the news have stricken on him. “So Stark lost his mind, and that’s why you fought?”.

Steve nods.

“Cap.” Sam says, and oh, Steve _hates_ this tone. He knows what this is. This is pity, this is that sad sympathy Steve has heard all his life when he was small, like everyone who tried to protect him from the world by hiding him from it. He tells himself this is not Sam’s intention – and he knows that’s true, he knows, because Sam would never be so disrespectful as to treat him like a child who doesn’t know how to defend himself -, but the kindness, the gentleness, that note of sorrow and sadness in his voice; It’s impossible not to remember the _before_ , the scrawny guy he was, and the insulting reaction everyone around him had because of it.

Steve raises his eyes and locks his gaze with Sam’s, like he does when he feels too small.

_He plants himself like a tree._

He doesn’t take anyone’s comfort or coddling. He doesn’t need to.

_No, you move._

“You know how hard it’ll be to fix this, don’t you?” Sam murmurs in a sorrowful tone. “I know you want to fix this. It’s just… It’s just the kind of guy you are. I’ve seen the phone.”

Steve freezes for a second, but then he thinks _of course you have._

He hasn’t been nearly as careful as he should about hiding it. He knows this.

It doesn’t surprise him.

(But it does make you feel backed up into a corner, doesn’t it?)

(He’s not accusing you, soldier.)

(God.)

(Can’t you just calm down for a second?)

“I don’t know what you were trying to do with it, but I trust you.” Sam continues, as if he hadn’t seen the way Steve tensed at his admission about the burner phone. “I know you are only trying to make things right. If not now, maybe someday. That’s all you ever try to do. But you know… _This_ is not something easy to fix. It’s not… it’s not easy at all.”

“It wasn’t Bucky’s fault.” Steve impulsively says, because he just can’t not do it. How many times is he going to have to say this? How many times until everyone gets it? It wasn’t Bucky’s fault. Why—Why don’t people see it as clearly as he does?

“I know.” Sam agrees. “But can you blame the guy for reacting badly? They were his parents, man. I don’t know what I would have done in his place.”

“Tony _knew_ Bucky had been controlled.”

“Steve.” Sam sighs, looking at him with sad eyes. “The guy might be a genius, but he’s not a machine. We all get irrational when someone we love gets hurt.”

( _Bucky?_ )

_Oh._

_Riley. Sam has lost someone he loves too._

(Captain… Haven’t we all?)

Steve doesn’t know what to say to that. Sam looks at him, expecting him to answer, but when he doesn’t, they both turn to stare down at the garden, bathed in moonlight through the glass ceiling, quiet and peaceful, like a painting, frozen in time. The air is cooling down from the humid heat of the afternoon, chilly because of the breeze that floats in from the balcony, causing the hairs on his arms to stand up in an unpleasant shiver when it comes in contact with his surprisingly clammy skin.

He feels wound up so tight it’s a marvel he doesn’t snap.

(Don’t you ever wonder what’s going to happen when you do?)

“Will Barnes come with us?” Sam asks quietly, his voice so low that no one expect Steve would have heard it, even if they weren’t alone. “When we leave?”

“No.” Steve breathes out, forcing himself to drop his shoulders form his incredibly tense position, uselessly hoping that will help to ease the knots of discomfort that have formed on his back. “He decided to stay.”

Sam nods, as if he expected that, but then he pauses. “And you’re ok with that?”

He’s not sure actually, but he doesn’t say so. He nods in affirmation, instead. He feels like it’s good enough for an answer; But that does make him wonder what kind of person he seems to be, when Bucky is concerned, that people don’t believe he’s capable of being apart from him when all he’s done these last few months is to give Bucky the space he needed.

What exactly do people see, when they look at Steve when he’s next to Bucky.

And how different does he seem, when they are apart.

_We all get irrational when they hurt someone we love._

(Hm.)

(Kinda makes you wonder how irrational do _you_ get.)

(Have you ever thought about it?)

Steve curses under his breath.

_Shut up, Tony._

 

(The third one is Scott.)

(When it happens, Steve doesn’t take it as a warning.)

(But he should have.)

 

Steve calls Clint and Wanda, and keeps them updated. They both sound very relieved when Steve tells them Bucky is fine, that they’re all fine, and soon they’ll be on the move again. He tells them Bucky won’t be joining them however, and he’s surprised to find himself not that hurt about that idea. He feels more understanding now, after seeing Bucky. After hearing the words directly from him. He’s not completely at ease, but then, he never is these days, so as far as he is concerned, everything went as well as he could expect. Clint tells him they’re glad, they’re also fine, and they’ll be waiting for them in Egypt until they return. And that’s the end of it.

After that, he calls Scott.

But _that_ conversation goes in a way he didn’t expected it to.

“So he’s fine now?” Scott asks, sounding a bit manic to be honest, like he’s afraid Steve’s lying or playing a prank on him.

“He is.”

“Oh, good! That’s… That’s good!” Scott stutters, a bit more happily. “That’s really good to know. I’m glad, Captain!”

“I told you, you can call me Steve.”

“Sorry, force of the habit.” Steve hears a rustling on the background of Scott’s side of the line, and he imagines the man fiddling with something, awkwardly. “Hum… Hey, Steve. I think we need to talk about something.”

Steve sits up straighter, adjusting himself on the chair to make sure he is completely focused on Scott’s voice. His tone is unsure. He might be in trouble. “What’s wrong?”

“No, no, nothing’s wrong!” Scott says in a hurry. “It’s just… I thought I should let you know, even though I still haven’t decided yet, but I’m… I’m giving my two-week notice, let’s say.”

Steve frowns, unamused. “What do you mean?”

Scott takes in a deep breath, and then he just blurts out his next words. “I’m thinking about going back and turning myself in.”

_What?_

Steve blinks slowly for a second, allowing the silence that falls between them to swallow him whole, blocking the entire world out as he fully processes the words Scott has just said. The uneasiness is immediate. The years and years of suspicion and wariness raise their ugly heads to look over his shoulder, monsters sneering by his ears, whispering about mistrust and bad decisions.

He tries to ignore them. Scott is skittish around him and he won’t react well if Steve completely shuts him down now. And Steve wants to know more about this, about _why_ is Scott thinking about this. He doesn’t understand.

Maybe if he does, he can convince him otherwise.

“Are you sure?” he asks, sounding every bit as preoccupied as he feels, but he doesn’t sound reprimanding. Which is a victory in his book— because Steve knows how cutting he can sound when he damn well wants to.

“Sure? No.” Scott laughs in a depreciative manner. “But I’ve been thinking. I was catching up with the news, and I’ve been seeing a lot of talk about some amendments to the Accords and things like that, and I thought… I thought I should give it a try.”

“There is no guarantee that’ll work well, Scott.” Steve reminds him. “They might put you back in the Raft.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too at first, but I’ve been studying on it.” Scott replies, more confidently. “Actually, there’s some advantages to surrendering, you know? You can make some agreements when you go in trial. I’ve done it before, I know how it goes.”

“That’s no guarantee they won’t put you back in there.” Steve insists, impatiently.

“Well, I’ll be going as Scott Lang now, not Ant-Man. I don’t even have the suit. Putting me in a floating prison will be _much harder_ to justify this time around, so I don’t think they’ll do it. And even if they tried, it would be much easier to get an appeal now, because I’m surrendering _and_ a civilian.” Scott makes a worried sound, something that almost sounds like a whimper. “I was worried they were going to charge me for terrorism, you know? It’s not good. Technically they couldn’t do it, ‘cause I wasn’t a government employee like you guys, so it would be really hard to justify my presence in Germany as a political attack, but who trusts law these days? I sure don’t.”

Steve’s body freezes up so fast it’s a surprise he doesn’t pull a goddamn muscle.

_Terrorism?_

How— How _distorted_ is their story being back home?

“But I checked.” Scott just keeps talking, completely unaware of how deeply he has disturbed Steve. “No civilian casualties, no interaction with the public, no religious, political or ideological motivations. No conflict with German forces either, so there’s no explanation they can give to make these charges hold up to argument; so that’s a plus, I guess. The rest they can charge me with? I can negotiate. So far, the list includes: destruction of an airport – not good, but I can work with it -, escaping prison – that one is a _little_ bit trickier, but not my first rodeo on that— wait, that’s probably not a good thing, nevermind.”

Scott is still talking, but at this point Steve is only half listening. He’s sitting so still his body might as well be made of marble right now. Every single breath he takes is harsh and painful, scratching his throat all the way down to his lungs, stinging like needles being pushed into his chest as slowly and agonizingly as possible.

He’s _horrified._ He’s fucking appalled.

It’s not that simple. _It’s not that simple, Scott_. They will lock you up, he wants to say. They won’t care. They will pin the blame of their own mistakes on you and you’ll regret it, they’re just trying to find someone to crucify, someone to be their scapegoat. They’ll say you’re dangerous and they will torture you. They will put you in shackles. They will strip away everything you are.

_But Scott is still talking._

“They’ll probably ask me to sign those Accords now.” Scott reasons to himself. “I mean, _probably_ , just to be safe, because I’m technically not an Avenger, so I wouldn’t need to. But I _did_ fight with you so that argument might not hold up now. If I ever wanna put the suit on ever again, I’m gonna have to play by the rules now.”

“You’ve never seen the Accords, Scott.” Steve harshly says as an argument, a little desperate— and then his breath gets caught on his throat, painfully, as the meaning of his own words catch up to him.

Scott is not an Avenger. He’s _never seen_ the Accords.

“Exactly!” Scott exclaims, as if Steve had just _agreed_ with his logic. “I never even seen them. I’m not employed by the government, so they can’t use me to start a political fight. Man, I don’t even know what’s gonna happen with the suit now. Hank is probably throwing darts at pictures of my face every single day— and _God knows_ what Hope will do to me when she sees me. I’ll hate every second of it, I’m sure about that.”

“Scott.” Steve warns, uncaring if he’s interrupting. “You’ve never read them. You don’t know what kind of demands are in there. You can’t just sign it and hope for the best.”

“What? No, I won’t sign it immediately, I know that. But signing it’s like, step two. Step one is actually getting back and not getting to a life imprisonment type of sentence, you know? That’s what I’m worried about. The Accords thing is kinda secondary to me.”

 _How can it be secondary!?_ The furious voice inside of Steve’s head growls, affronted and disturbed, and he has to squint his eyes shut and shake his head to keep it at bay, gripping the phone so tight in his hand that he hears the faint sound of the plastic casing cracking at the corners from the pressure.

“I mean, if I read them and I think they’re bullshit, I just won’t sign and… And I’ll give up the suit, I guess.” Scott says and Steve can almost hear it as he shrugs. “Not my favorite idea, but I’ve had worse. Honestly, at this point… I’d give up anything if it meant I can go home and see my daughter on her birthday.”

(He gets it.)

_But what if they need you?_

(That’s the worst part. He _gets_ it.)

(He can’t blame Scott for wanting to go back to his family.)

_But what if the world needs you?_

(Why do they always have to choose?)

“I’m still thinking about it!” Scott tries to reassure him; But it’s useless, because he has already _decided._ Steve knows he has. He can spend the next two months agonizing over it, going through possibilities and trying to work logic into every scenario, weighting risks and benefits, but it’s _useless._ It’s his family.

( _We all get irrational when it’s family._ )

“I know.” Steve says, but no more than that. Anything else would be a lie. Anything else would be _too much._

“Well…” Scott hesitates, waiting for him to continue, and when he doesn’t, Scott sighs and his breath causes a static to go through the phone, uncomfortable and noisy— The very same noise Steve can hear inside of his head now. Like a missing connection. An interference. A huge fog that clouds all of his senses and makes him completely _blind._ “I’ll let you know if anything changes. Sorry, Captain, I know you worry about the Accords and all that stuff. I wish I could tell you I found the perfect solution, but I’m an engineer, not a lawyer. But I hope that if I do it first, it’ll be easier for you guys to do it too, someday.”

“Yeah.” Steve says, completely dry.

(Anything else would be a lie?)

(Who are you fooling?)

(That already feels like a lie.)

“I’ll… I’ll let you know my decision…when I make it.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Alright. Ok. Thanks, Ca— Steve. Thanks. And tell your friend we’re glad he’s fine.” Scott tries to inject a bit more excitement to his voice, but it’s too late now. Steve’s not feeling anything but dread at this point. He can’t even pretend he isn’t. “So, I guess that’s all. Thanks for keeping me updated. If you need anything, just call me and I’ll come, I have the phone with me at all times.”

_But that doesn’t make him feel any better._

(Because very soon, it’ll be just another phone.)

(Another hole in his pocket.)

(Another call that’ll never be completed.)

“I will. Thanks, Scott.”

 

(The fourth one is T’Challa.)

(This one, he sees it coming.)

(What he doesn’t see coming, however, is his own reaction to it.)

 

It doesn’t surprise Steve to realize he can’t find Natasha anywhere.

She is, after all, the Black Widow, and she is much more skilled in stealth than Steve could ever hope to be. He’s not sure if she’s actively hiding from him or just wandering around gathering intel as she always does, but he wouldn’t put past her to be; But he doesn’t really care right now. Steve paces through the halls practically stomping, his body feeling way too heavy for him to control how imposing and furious he looks, his mind too preoccupied to bother about it.

He can smell the blood in the water. He won’t stop until he finds the source.

He’s not exactly furious at Natasha, but it doesn’t stop him from feeling his blood boil hotter every second he passes without finding her. He knows, somewhere deep in mind, that this is not her fault. It is not a matter of fault. Things are just… Things are happening and it’s too much, it’s always too much, and he’s once again being proven how _fucking_ useless he is in helping those who need.

He thinks he should be more understanding about Scott’s concerns, but he can’t quite make it there. He thinks he should be more sensitive to Bucky’s insecurities, but he’s always saying the wrong thing. He thinks he should talk more openly to Sam, who is the person who supports him the most, unconditionally, but he can’t let go of years and years of self-isolation and make that trust leap, even though he knows Sam only has the best of intentions.

(Big and mighty Captain America _._ )

(Just a boy from Brooklyn. Always falling short.)

_Would you shut up for just one **fucking** second?_

It takes him a long time. And when he finally does find her, he doesn’t find her alone.

He stumbles upon them on accident, while he’s taking a sharp turn to the right in the direction of the great lounge that exists on the floor above princess Shuri’s lab; and suddenly, he spots her. She is talking with king T’Challa, both of them standing by the glass wall that faces the back of the palace, out to the great open field that extends as far as the eye can see. They speak in hushed tones, so quietly that Steve can’t hear them from this distance, even with his enhanced hearing, but he can see by their body language that whatever it is that they’re talking about, it is not pleasant. Natasha seems skittish with poorly concealed worry, shifting her weight from one feet to another unconsciously, as if she can’t find a position to be comfortable in. T’Challa is tense, his shoulders raised, but his face is kind and concerned, if not a little desperate.

As soon as he steps too close – which is not at all, for a normal person, but for people like Natasha and T’Challa, who are far more aware of their surroundings than the regular person, is more than enough -, they both stop talking and turn their head back at him, gazes sharp and unyielding, like predators zeroing on prey. Something dark passes through Natasha’s eyes, something distant, and although her face doesn’t change, Steve can see the armor she pulls around herself like a cocoon, blocking away every crevice and scar, leaving her completely invulnerable. She transforms into the Black Widow right before his eyes, as she’s never done before.

It hurts him in a way he can’t put into words. It hurts so much because he doesn’t understand _why_ it’s happening.

“Your Highness.” Steve says politely, but not moving a muscle, his whole body tensed as if he’s ready to burst into a sprint as soon as it seems necessary. He feels like he might need to. For some reason, he knows Natasha would vanish into thin air if she could right now. “Sorry to interrupt. I need to speak with Natasha alone for a moment.”

She doesn’t say a word.

“It’s no matter, Captain.” T’Challa nods at him, taking a step back and putting some distance between him and Natasha, putting his hands behind his back in a relaxed manner. It’s clearly on purpose; He’s trying to make himself look as unthreatening as possible, which is probably for the best, because Steve and Natasha are both acting like cornered animals, ready to throw themselves at each other’s throats at the slightest chance. “Miss Romanov and I were finishing our conversation.”

“Yes, we were.” Natasha agrees, and her tone is not at all friendly.

“Nat.” Steve insists, as his voice sounds accusatory even though he doesn’t mean do it. “We need to talk.”

“Outside.” It’s all she says, like an order, and she doesn’t wait for his answer before she turns on her heels and walks away without looking back.

Steve is about to follow her, fast paced as to not let her run away, but T’Challa stops him on his tracks just by taking a step forward and making himself the focus of Steve’s attention for a split second.

“If I may have a word.” He says, in that diplomatic tone only people with his history of dealing with public affairs and being pleasant over any hardships can possibly achieve.

_The sounds of a performer._

_The perfect act for the press._

_Or for a stranger._

“I’d like to ask you something, Captain.” T’Challa asks, perfectly calm, as if he can’t see that Steve is itching with the need of running for Natasha and making sure she won’t disappear on him again if he’s not too careful.

He grits his teeth, pain aching all the way up to his temples from the force he applies to his own jaw as he does it, but he stands still and makes sure is tone is very polite when he answers. “Of course.”

“I would like to know if you have any idea about what might be troubling Miss Romanov. As you might have noticed, she hasn’t been quite herself as of late.”

“So you noticed too.” Steve huffs, but there is no mistaking the sarcasm in his voice. His lips are curling back in a mockery of a smile, he feels the way it deforms his face into something ugly, something evil, something he wishes he couldn’t feel at all.

T’Challa stares at him for a moment. “You misunderstand me, Captain. I _know_ why she is troubled. I was merely wondering if _you_ do.”

Steve has tried to lose the habit of swearing out loud after he serum, when he became Captain America and he suddenly had to watch his actions and his words all the time— but right here, at this very moment, the only thing that actually stops him from doing it is the sheer sense of _incredulity_ that washes over him and renders him totally mute. He feels the way the words get stuck in his throat, blocking his airways like clogged pipes; and he might have flinched so hard that not even the feel of his muscles turning into stone is enough to stop him from visibly recoiling, if the way the king’s gaze sharpens suddenly in his direction.

Is— Is T’Challa _mocking_ him? No. That can’t be it. It’s not like him.

He _means_ it. He absolutely means it. His eyes have that careful and analytical gleam to them, that one that makes Steve feel so inferior, so naïve and helpless before a man much wiser than he is, despite the incredible differences in their experiences. Steve has never felt as wise as T’Challa seems to be. He has never felt this kind of ease and imposing tranquility that the king has. Must have. T’Challa is a man used to putting himself in the line of fire every time he makes a decision, for his choices rarely affect only himself, and this is the result of that necessity. This is the culmination of all his years as a leader, the leader he’s been told he should be ever since he was born.

T’Challa is standing before him like a wall, putting himself as an obstacle between Steve and Natasha, and he will not allow him passage before Steve gives him what he wants. He won’t back down. He knows something Steve doesn’t, something Steve _has_ to know, but he won’t tell him either; because it’s Steve’s responsibility to figure it out, to be aware of his teammates struggles, to help them beyond his own conflicted feelings on the matter.

_A creature of myths. Ancient, powerful, unyielding._

_A king._

(Something you tried to be, isn’t it?)

(Unyielding.)

(Practical.)

(Righteous.)

(How’s that working for you?)

But the thing is— Now, he doesn’t have to think about it. Before this day, he might have. He might have pushed it to the back of his head as he did with everything he deemed not urgent, not a priority, and conveniently forgotten about it until he was completely alone and had nothing to distract him from the fear of the unknown that would eventually swallow him whole. He would have fought it back as hard as he could, for as long as he could, if he’d have his way.

But he can’t run from it. He tried, but he can’t.

_War will always find him._

_Strength incites challenge. Challenge invites conflict._

_And conflict—_

“The Accords.” Steve whispers, the words strangled and harsh between his teeth, the viscous sensation of poison dribbling down his throat making him choke, his hands itching in an uncomfortable way, _begging_ him to release the anger that is pooling like hot lava in his fists. “Isn’t it?”

T’Challa doesn’t move. He’s waiting for something more.

But Steve doesn’t have to think about it, because the door has been opened. He can’t stop it now. Everything is coming back to him in a rush, a flare of white-hot anger, and he can’t find it in him to hold back.

“We are in Wakanda under your protection, despite everything that’s happened.” He says, attempting to make clear how grateful he is about it, but he’s not succeeding. He just feels cold. Furious. _Bitter._ “But you signed. And so did she. And she then _broke_ them.”

A pause.

“And so did you.”

He can’t even remember to call T’Challa by his royal title. He’s too far gone.

_Does T’Challa want to know what he thinks about it? Fine. Then he will._

“She won’t talk to me about it because she thinks I won’t listen.” Steve growls, and the _and she’s right_ goes unsaid, but perfectly clear by his tone. “I am against them, and I always will be. I will never support something that was made to stop me from helping people when they need me. I don’t care about governments and their agendas. I don’t care about politics. We are not weapons to be used when they think it’s convenient— We’re _heroes_ , and we go when we’re called, not because we’re told to but because it’s what’s _right._ ”

“And who exactly is calling you, Captain?”

_Is this a joke?_

“ _People._ People are our responsibility. People are our main concern, _always_ , not governments, not organizations, not _accords_. Helping people is the only thing I care about. If _they—_ ” he sneers, cruelly. “decide to prioritize politics over doing the right thing, I’m not going with them. I won’t follow rules just because they’re rules, because rules can be _wrong.”_

“Hm.” That _fucking_ hum, Steve’s nostrils flare as he breathes, barely keeping himself in check, trying his best to allow T’Challa to speak without interrupting. “And why do you think she is angry about it? Because it is not worry, Captain. It’s anger.”

(That’s the heart of the matter, isn’t it?)

(You don’t know.)

(You thought you did, when she came to you.)

(You thought it would be fine.)

(But it isn’t.)

(And now what?)

“I don’t know.” Steve admits, even though he feels like he’s gutting himself as he does, because at this point, he can’t help but being as brutally honest as he can. He can’t muster the strength to hide or lie. He’s completely bare. He’s _exposed._

_T’Challa is forcing him to strip away all his masks, all his walls, all his tricks before leaving him to Natasha._

_He wants them to fight._

_He knows that’s the only way they will fix this._

(Disasters, both of you.)

(Captain America and Black Widow, feeding honesty with violence.)

(When will you learn? When will _we_ learn?)

“Then perhaps, if you’d like to keep her friendship after this night…” T’Challa says, and his tone might sound like a suggestion, but Steve is well aware that it _isn’t_. “You should ask her.”

Steve nods, because that’s all he can do without losing his composure, and finally – finally – T’Challa decides it’s enough. He takes a step back, a step that doesn’t really influence anything about Steve’s trajectory to where Natasha was headed, but as soon he does, Steve recognizes the silent permission to proceed the king has just given him. That’s all he wanted. It’s all he needed.

Steve resumes his march in the direction of the door, striding with purpose, and just as he’s about to leave—

“Captain Rogers?” T’Challa’s voice stops him at the very last second, like it’s _torture_ , and Steve only turns his head to look over his shoulder and nothing more, unwilling to let T’Challa delay him for one more minute.

T’Challa pays him no mind. He stares Steve down with his dark eyes, serious and firm, and when he speaks, he is no longer the benevolent, wise benefactor he was just a few seconds ago.

He is a king. And he expects to be obeyed.

“Asking is not enough.” He commands. “You have to _listen._ ”

 

(Natasha is the first, but Steve confronts her last.)

(It’s the only way it could have gone.)

(She is the only one who would make him listen.)

 

Natasha is there, as she said she would be. The really shouldn’t do this outside, but Steve has had enough with Natasha’s evasiveness and he won’t give her the chance to escape this conversation again. And he knows- he knows, somewhere deep down, that there’s a very real chance that they might actually _fight._ He doesn’t want to admit it, but it’s true. They have to stay away from the palace, or else they might destroy something without meaning to, and Steve owes T’Challa far too much already to risk that happening in any way.

She stands there, with her back turned on him, her arms crossed and stance wide, a pose perfect for a quick attack to the back if she decided to raise her elbow and spin on her heels. Steve makes note of that. Not that he actually believes Natasha will attack him before they start talking; But the fact that she is ready for it if the need arises is not something he can ignore.

But he doesn’t feel intimidated.

(Yeah. You always stop feeling anything else when you’re furious.)

“Nat.” Steve calls through gritted teeth, striding in wide steps until he’s right behind her, his breaths no more than short huffs as if he’d just run a marathon. “We need to talk.”

Natasha slowly turns to him, her gaze so intense he feels like she’s looking down on him even though she’s much shorter, her arms never uncrossing from her chest. “Yeah, we really do.”

“What the hell is _wrong_ with you?” Steve growls, squinting at her. “Why are you acting like stubborn kid who didn’t get the present she wanted? We don’t have _time_ for this. If you got a problem, you tell me to my face and stop hiding behind T’Challa everytime I confront you about it.”

Natasha’s face morphs into one of the most absolute _disappointment_ Steve has ever seen, and Steve’s blood roars with anger so hot and quick he can feel the way it’s melting him from the inside out.

“You know what?” Natasha glances away, trying to shut herself out of his sight, giving a barely audible sniff before giving him a smile that is pure plastic and no emotion. “Now it’s not a good time, Steve. Come back when you actually feel like talking and not just growling at my face.”

And she tries to side-step him and leave, but he won’t allow it.

“Why is that? Got somewhere to be?”

Before she can take another step, she pauses and looks back at him, an evil smirk on her face. “You better not be implying what I think you are, Cap. I’m not in the mood.”

“Yeah, you never are.” Steve chuckles darkly, and the sound is like nails on a chalkboard in his own ears. “But that’s too bad, because we’re not delaying this anymore. I want you to tell me what’s going on.”

“You _know_ what’s going on.”

“I want to hear you _say it._ To my _face._ ” Steve hisses at her. “I won’t play this game. If you got a problem, we solve it _now_ , no more of this hiding and guessing crap. _Say it to my face._ ”

Natasha squares her jaw, eyes gleaming with anger, and she takes a step forward so she’s _right there_ , in his personal space, hissing back right to his face.

“I am angry about the Accords.” She almost makes it sound like an insult. “Is that what you wanted to hear? I’m _angry._ Because you’re _ignoring_ it, you’re all ignoring it, and you don’t even _know_ what’s happening out there when you’re not looking.”

“You think I’m _ignoring_ it!?”

(You sure are trying, mon capitaine.)

 _He fucking can’t ignore it._ He _can’t_. Every day that goes by with the phone in his pocket completely silent is another shot through his heart he can’t fucking heal from. Every time he turns on a TV or a radio and he hears about conflicts he could be helping people solve, but instead he is _here, hiding_ , like a criminal, because the Accords can’t see the damn difference.

There isn’t a single day in his life ever since Siberia that Steve hasn’t though about it.

Because his life feels _so fucking empty now._ It’s a _gaping wound._ He can’t ignore it.

He can’t ignore it.

“It’s cute how you think you aren’t.” Natasha jabs at him, tilting her head mockingly. “But can we please drop the act just for now?”

“I’m not ignoring it.” Steve exclaims, so angry he can feel how his face is getting hotter by the second, his pulse thumping loud as a drum in his temples. “I don’t have anything to say about them. I’ve said my piece. They are _wrong,_ and that’s it. You have to learn to deal with it, Romanov.”

“And that’s it? You say they’re wrong and that’s all there is to it? We should all just accept it?”

“You _know_ I’m right, Natasha!” _Fuck,_ he’s yelling, he knows he’s yelling, and he _can’t stop it._ He’s so furious. He can’t stop it. “Admit it, you made a mistake! You signed your freedom away without thinking about it and you were wrong! Just drop it already!”

“If you really think that’s what happened, you’re so lucky you’re pretty, Rogers, because there’s clearly something wrong with your head.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean!?”

“You’re _angry,_ Steve!” And Natasha is yelling _back,_ dear God, they look like animals, snarling at each other’s faces and fighting over _stupid things._ They are supposed to be on the same side. Natasha is supposed to be his friend! She is supposed to help him, to support him, to understand!

( _So was I._ )

_Shut up! Shut the **fuck** up!_

“You’re always so angry! You don’t even know how not to be! You’re so angry you can’t think about it clearly! You are completely blind!”

“I’m angry because it’s _ridiculous!”_ Steve forces himself to step away from her, but it’s not enough. The air is stifling. His knuckles ache. His eyes sting. “It’s not _right,_ Natasha! They arrested Wanda and put her in a straight jacket! How can you support that!? How can you think that’s ok!?”

“It’s not ok! But where else would they put her!? There are no cells made to accommodate someone with her abilities.” She takes a breath, sounding winded, but it doesn’t really help. She’s out of her mind, just as Steve is. “SHIELD had a cell for the Hulk, but we don’t have that anymore, do we?”

“It was _a crime._ ” Steve tells her. “They can’t restrain someone like that!”

“They _can,_ if there is a threat of violence.” Natasha snaps back. “There is no precedent on how to treat enhanced people in case of arrest, Steve. That’s exactly why the Accords exist! So we won’t fall into the hands of someone who’ll try to hurt us.” She tries to pause and it visibly _hurts_ her to do so, by the way she closes her eyes and sighs, her hands closed in fists by her sides, shaking with poorly contained rage. “Vision is not even _human._ There are no laws to protect him. Before the Accords, had he broken the law, he could have been _destroyed_. Did you even think about _that_?”

(You hadn’t.)

“Then how did it happen? Because it did!” Steve points to nowhere, just because he feels the need to keep himself moving, to make himself seem larger and imposing, because he’s _right,_ he knows he is, and he’s not backing down from this. “They arrested them and the put Wanda in a _collar_ and a _straight-jacket._ Like she was an _animal!_ How do you explain that!?”

“She never signed it! Whatever protection the Accords could’ve given her, she didn’t _take it_. If enhanced individuals need to have special rights, she _didn’t take them_ , and they used that against her! And they would’ve done the same to _you_ , if you’d have been caught.” Natasha points at him, and if Steve would’ve looked hard enough at it, he’d notice that she is _trembling._ “Vision and Thor are not human. Everyone else is. But _you and Wanda?_ You are human, but you’re _more._ You need extra protection. If they try to arrest you and cause you harm under the pretense of being necessary, because you’re too strong, you need something to make sure no one is going to use that excuse to hurt you. You need legal protection. And you didn’t _take_ it. And they took advantage of it!”

Steve is so appalled he can’t speak. He doesn’t _care._ This is _ridiculous._ This _shouldn’t be possible._ They shouldn’t even be able to justify that kind of behavior. They are _human,_ through and through, even if they can do more! They are human first and foremost. They have rights and those rights had been _violated_ , and that’s all that matters! That is the bottom line! There is no argument to be made here, they are _wrong_ , and Steve has the proof!

_What about Vision?_

(You don’t remember what the Accords said about him, do you?)

(You don’t know if Natasha is actually right.)

(She might be right.)

(What would you do if she was?)

“Think about _Bruce_ …” Natasha says, almost pleading. “Bruce would have been the same. With no protection, they would’ve been able to do whatever they wanted with him. It’s what _Ross_ did to him, when he turned. They used him as an experiment because he had no one to turn to. It’s not right.”

“Bruce wouldn’t have signed it.” Steve says with absolute certainty. “He would never have stood by Ross.”

“Ross is not the Accords’ executioner, Steve.” Natasha growls, but she doesn’t correct him. “Out of all of us, Bruce was the one who felt the weight of every casualty the most. He would have seen the necessity for the Accords, even if he didn’t sign them. And if Ross was the one to present them to him, he would have refused and _retired_ , like you should have. He would have done it in a heartbeat. You know that.”

“That’s just running away from the responsibility.” Steve argues. “We can’t just retire and pretend we don’t see the danger when it’s there. We can’t sit by and wait. I wouldn’t blame Bruce for retiring, but I don’t have to agree and tell you that’s what I should’ve done. I _won’t_ stand down. It’s _our_ responsibility.”

“You want to talk about responsibility? Ok.” Natasha says, and Steve immediately knows he somehow stepped on a landmine without noticing. “Tell me, Cap, how exactly are you taking responsibility for those buildings we destroyed in Germany? In Sokovia? In Washington? New York? What are you doing to make that easier on everyone else besides _us_?”

“How are _you_ taking responsibility, Natasha?”

“ _Answer my question, Steve.”_

_For God's sake! How!? **How!**? _

_Not running away from it, that's how!_

How can Natasha not see that!?

“We take responsibility by assuming our mistakes as our own!” Steve yells. “We don’t always get it right! If we destroy something, we face the consequences! We don’t throw the blame around to run from it!”

“And you don’t think arresting them is facing the consequences for their mistakes?”

(Oh, shit.)

(You walked right into that one, didn’t you?)

(This is the Black Widow you’re talking to, Captain.)

(You should be more careful about what you say to her.)

“We knew it was a possibility.” Steve concedes. “But that doesn’t mean it’s _right_. _The way it happened_ wasn’t right. You can deflect all you want, Natasha, but the truth is that they _did harm_ to Wanda and the others and they had no right to do so! She is not violent! She is not a threat!”

“What have we done to convince them she isn’t!?” Natasha asks. “We fought and we destroyed an entire airport, Steve. Wanda dropped twenty cars on Tony. Vision broke a control tower in half. Scott broke the wing of an airplane. Rhodes _lost his legs._ We’re all dangerous, Steve. That’s why the Accords _exist._ ”

_What word would you use, Mr. Secretary?_

_How about **dangerous**?_

“Why are you fighting me on this!?” Steve growls, pained and infuriated, having to physically fight the urge to grab his own hair and tug at it, like a maniac, trying to ease the terrible, awful sensation he’s feeling in his head, like a swarm of wasps buzzing non-stop in his brain, slowly driving him insane.

“Natasha. You know I’m right. The Accords were created to manipulate us into acting as weapons. The reason why we work is because we have no government telling us what to do. What would we do when someone ordered us to attack an innocent group of people, under false pretense? It would have happened.”

“Cap.” Natasha sighs, exasperatedly. “You can’t—you can’t be serious.”

“Government have their own agendas, Nat.” Steve says, and God help him, he’s sounding _desperate_ now. He’s losing it. He’s losing all his strength and he doesn’t know what to do to make this right. “We can’t trust them blindly. You know that. You saw what happened to SHIELD. How can you trust them after that?”

“And why should anyone trust _us_ blindly, Steve?” Natasha asks, equally desperate. “We were a group of incredibly skilled people prepared for combat, an _assault team_ , and the only supervision we had was the United States government. Wherever we went, we were bringing them with us. And you wonder why people wanted us to sign? It’s because they have no proof we are _not_ following the government’s agenda!”

The idea that Steve might have been _complacent_ with Ross’s disgusting schemes makes his stomach churn so badly he would have thrown up if he had anything at all in his stomach to expel.

(How long has it been since you last ate?)

(Do you even remember?)

“So the way to do it is just stop us from acting!?” Steve jabs, furious again. “Stop us from helping because we’re not _giving them_ a detailed report about our _good intentions!?_ ”

“Clearly not, because Tony signed and he is out there, fighting as an Avenger, and we’re the ones hiding like criminals.”

(Such a shame your words are never as efficient as your actions _._ )

_Why is she fighting him on this?_

_He thought she understood._

_He thought she changed her mind._

_Why can’t he make her see?_

(Such a shame, Captain.)

“You know why I’m fighting you? Because I signed it.” Natasha says, and she sounds _exhausted,_ like this has drained every ounce of energy she still had in her. She’s so tired. They’re _both_ so tired. “I did. You can’t forget that. I read that document and I thought it was reasonable, or at least reasonable enough, to give it a shot.”

“And you backed out.” Steve points out accusingly. “So it was not a great decision, was it?”

“I didn’t run away because I regretted it, Rogers.” She growls at him. “I ran away because I can help us more if I’m not restrained. Not the Accords. _Us_. Tony won’t reach out for you— _No, listen to me._ ” She orders as Steve opens his mouth to argue. “Tony won’t reach out. You know it. And you won’t either.”

“For Christ’s sake, _I won’t reach out_?” Steve scoffs, offended. “I sent him the phone, Natasha. He’s the one choosing not to use it. He’s—!” Steve licks his lips and adverts his gaze, suddenly feeling so nauseated, so terrible, so… wrong. “He’s the one pushing us away!”

“He won’t _trust_ us, Steve.” Natasha says. “He won’t risk it! He broke the Accords once, to find you in Siberia, and we still broke apart anyway! He won’t break them again unless he’s _dying_.”

That—oh God, that _hurts,_ the idea that Tony would rather _die_ than call him for help. It hurts because Steve knows it’s _true._ Tony would— _fuck_ , Tony wouldn’t contact them, _him_ , for nothing short of the end of the world. _The end of the world he can’t stop thinking about._ The paranoid son of a bitch, always building an army of suits, preparing for an invisible enemy he has _no way_ of making sure he’ll ever be _ready enough_ for. The infuriating, stupid, _suicidal_ asshole, he would get himself into a fistfight with an enemy who was twice his size and five times stronger than he was before he would call Steve for help.

(You know me so well, darling.)

_No, he wouldn’t._

(Yes, I would.)

“That’s why I reached out!” Steve yells, actually yells this time, using the full capacity of his lungs, because, because—It doesn’t matter why! “What happened was a mistake! This whole thing was a mistake! I was trying to fix it!”

“By sending him a phone? That’s not fixing it, Cap.”

“I’m trying to! It’s no use if Tony won’t call! If he can’t reach out, it’s not my fault!”

“A phone works both ways.” Natasha quips back. “Have you tried calling him?”

(You haven’t.)

(Why haven’t you?)

“Tony won’t pick it up.” He says through gritted teeth, like the words are being dragged out of him, burning up in his throat like acid.

(Won’t I?)

(Why won’t I pick up the phone, Steve?)

_He won’t._

_You know that, right?_

“I know.” Natasha admits. “I said he wouldn’t. But _it doesn’t matter._ What matters is that you didn’t _try._ ” She sighs. “This is what I mean, Steve. Your anger. Your impulses. You refuse to try and call him the same way you refused to look at the Accords and see a chance for us to do some good. They are not perfect, but we can use them. We can use—”

“Do good!?” Steve interrupts. “You saw what they did to Bucky! He is innocent! And they were going to shoot him on sight!”

“What does that have to do with the Accords?” Natasha’s brows scrunch together, so intensely it makes her whole face turn into a grimace. “They thought he had bombed a United Nations conference. As far as they knew, they were trying to stop a terrorist. In Bucharest, the _local_ team, a German Task Force, was sent to neutralize the threat, _which no one besides us_ knew it was a brain-washed man. Where do the Accords play a part in this?”

“They were stopping us from helping.” Steve says through gritted teeth.

“As an American task force, acting without orders, interfering in a conflict involving over 100 countries with varying opinions on the international politics of the United States.” Natasha says, clinically and logically, as if he’s an _idiot_ who can’t understand how grave the situation is. “Just because you hate politics, Cap, doesn’t mean you are removed from them. You wear a flag as a uniform.”  

_So what was he supposed to do? Stand still while they shot Bucky?_

_Let them take him away?_

_Let him take the blame for somebody else’s crimes?_

(You heard the lady, Cap.)

(Is this about the Accords?)

(Don’t get all irrational on me now.)

_Fuck off, Tony!_

“I’ve been a spy for a very long time, Cap. And if there’s one thing I learned from all those years, is that governments fall every single day. It’s more dangerous to stay under the jurisdiction of the US than the UN.” Natasha says. “Being trapped under the thumb of a single nation is worse than being trapped under many nations. When you have a lot of people distracted with something, is much easier to slip out through the back door. Much easier to find loopholes. Much quicker to find a way to wiggle out of a bad place. I would know, I’m a specialist on it.”

“We are not trapped under the thumb of the US government.”

Natasha scoffs. “C’mon. We both know that’s not true. Who is paying for every building we break? Who is consoling the families of the people we couldn’t save? Just because we weren’t given _orders,_ Cap, doesn’t mean we acted freely. The world is always watching. That’s the most dangerous place to be, and we’re always right in the middle of it.”

Steve rubs his hands in his face, wishing he could just brush off the sheer exhaustion he feels so deep in his bones with just a mere shrug, but he can’t anymore. He’s so tired of this. So tired of fighting. He wishes Natasha would stop. That everything would stop. He wishes he could rewind back time and fix Sokovia, fix everything before it happened, so they wouldn’t have been left with _this._ This broken team, this hollow promise, this _useless phone._

It shouldn’t be so hard to do what’s right. They shouldn’t be _punished_ for trying to help.

That’s all he ever wanted.

All he wanted was to help.

Why can’t he? Why is he being punished for it? Why is the world trying to make him sound like a villain— When all he ever wanted was to be a hero?

“We were so lucky to act freely for as long as we did. You don’t even realize that.” Natasha whispers, much more gently, her whole body deflating and turning soft and tired, so drained and weary, exactly how Steve feels inside. “Look at our missions. Loki, the Chitauri. Aliens who never had to face trial in any human court in the world. The Chitauri fell. Thor took Loki back to Asgard. And we walked away free.”

Steve thinks about the class cage and Loki, smiling, like a kid on Christmas day.

_Why do I get the feeling he’s the only one in this ship who wants to be here?_

They never caught him, did they? He had been exactly where he wanted to be.

(Idiots, all of us.)

(Never ready. Always late.)

“Then, Ultron. A crazy robot. Not even a living being. When we caught him, he was destroyed, but there are no repercussions in killing a machine, is there? If that’s the case, they shouldn’t even have bothered with presenting Vision with the Accords. What does it matter? He has no rights. Machines don’t get the privilege to sign _anything_ to protect themselves.”

Steve closes his eyes, wishing he could make it stop. Wishing he could make this right. But he can’t, he doesn’t know how.

“Sounds easy, doesn’t it?” Natasha laughs humorlessly, not even looking at him. She’s staring at the horizon, lost in thought, and when she crosses her arms this time it’s not to make herself look imposing; but for protection, as if she’s hugging herself because she knows _no one else will._  “We show up, we get the bad guy, we go home. But look what happened when we tried to deal with humans. As soon as we got involved, the world tried to bite us back. We can’t win, Cap. There is no version of this story where we walk away _free._ ”

“We do what we can.” Steve says, quietly, almost as if he’s begging. Begging for her to agree. Begging her to help him go through this, because he can’t do it alone. He needs Natasha by his side. He needs her. He needs all of them, and not having all of them _here_ is killing him. “We’re not perfect. We _fail_. All we can hope for is that we do better next time.”

“And why are we the ones to decide if we get a next time?” Natasha looks at him, and her eyes are sad, sad, so _sad,_ so broken and alone, and Steve _doesn’t know what to do._ “The world decided we don’t get one. Not before we fix what we’ve already broken.”

_He’s trying, goddammit._

_Can’t you see he is trying!?_

“We can go around governments’ laws and ignore their orders as much as we like, Steve. We can refuse to play by their rules when we think they aren’t right. We can do everything to them to prove we won’t back down no matter what.”

( _But that’s not really the point, is it?_ )

“But the government is not the reason why we do this, Cap. _People_ are. So tell me. What can we do when the people we’re supposed to protect are _afraid_ of us?”

Steve doesn’t know.

He just doesn’t know.

“That’s why I’m angry, Steve.”

_Why does it have to be him to decide?_

_He doesn’t know._

“I am done with people being afraid of me.”

Please.

_Please._

He doesn’t know.

 

Steve punches a wall so hard he breaks his fingers.

He heals in six hours.

And it keeps hurting like hell.

 

He can’t sleep.

His body won’t let him. He tried, when he got back to his room – the luxurious suite T’Challa had so kindly spared him, even though Steve insisted it was completely unnecessary -, because as soon as he found himself alone, his thoughts began to wander in so many dangerous directions he decided the best course of action would be not thinking _at all._

He tried to sleep, but every single time he forced himself to relax his body would burst into uncontrollable shivers, as if his muscles were rebelling against him, injecting adrenaline in his system and denying him an escape from the cruelty of consciousness. He then got up, and decided to do some push-ups; and by some he means about 600 of them, without even breaking a sweat, but that is useless too because he can still hear himself think. He’s feeling trapped inside this room, no matter how spacious and beautiful it is. He looks around and instead of walls he sees bars, keeping him confined and isolated, forgotten by everything and everyone outside these walls.

So he steps outside and wanders.

And he completely loses track of time.

You see, he does think about it. He does, because he has no choice, and he can’t escape this anymore. T’Challa has gotten what he wanted. Steve is bare, raw and aching, his heart bruised and his confidence shattered, and Natasha tore through him mercilessly, because she knew exactly where to hit. She ripped him open, and now Steve is _dying_ , going mad with too many thoughts that don’t make sense, that don’t fit together, that he can’t reconcile because it feels wrong.

He understands.

(That’s the worst part, isn’t it?)

 _He does._ He hasn’t forgotten that Natasha signed it. But he had hoped— He had hoped she’d changed her mind when she left the US and came for him in the Raft. He thought she had finally understood. She saw what happened to Bucky, _she helped them escape_ , so why… Why was she still fighting him on this? They can’t— They can’t fix this if they are fighting. Natasha, T’Challa, Tony, Vision, Rhodes… They all needed to be on the same side to win this. If they all… If they all had refused right from the beginning, this wouldn’t have happened.

Steve has lived through the World War II. He knows what happens when the government tries to register and classify people by a characteristic or a number. He’s seen it first hand, how the bad intentions of a leader can destroy the world, how people can so easily be led to their own demise by a pretty speech and a bunch of lies. It’s an excuse as old as time, to disguise prejudice and bigotry under the pretense of protection, exposing people to danger for simply being who they are. For doing what they think it’s right. He can’t allow that to happen. Not again, not anymore.

The Accords might not seem like a threat now, but they have no guarantee they will stay that way. First, it was the Avengers. How long until they were being forced on every single enhanced individual in the world, even those who don’t fight? How long until people stopped being treated as people and started being ranked by threat levels, losing all sense of their humanity, because power-hungry agencies would try to control them or push them into fighting each other? _Like they had._ They had been pushed into a fight, a fight that tore them apart, and look what happened to them.

They are broken.

Steve is starting to fear that it might be _beyond repair._

The world needs the Avengers. But how can the Avengers be, if they can’t stand side by side when the world pushes back at them? If at the slightest pressure, they crumble, falling apart so completely they can’t fit themselves together again?

(Idiots, all of us. All of us.)

 _Only the Avengers were forced to sign for the time being,_ Steve thinks, _but T’Challa had signed._ He hasn’t forgotten that either. First and foremost, as a king, yes, but as soon as he put on the Black Panther suit and got involved, the Accords were pushed into his hands. Scott will probably have to sign them when he returns, even though he’s never seen them before. What does that tell them? Isn’t that proof enough? They won’t stop, not until every single enhanced person is under their control. That’s not safe. That’s not _fair._

Did Spiderman sign? Steve doesn’t know. He’s never heard of it. But the kid is still out there playing hero, he’s seen it on the news. No one is stopping him. There are others too, he heard – Daredevil, Luke Cage, Jessica Jones. He’s seen them on the news. but never when the Accords are concerned. Are they not obligated to sign it?

 _Probably not, yet,_ he thinks to himself, as he only remembers seeing them act inside the US territory. But who knows how long that will last? What if they refuse? Will they be thrown in the Raft like his friends, because they didn’t comply?

(You destroyed an airport, Cap.)

He did, but _where else would they put them_ , huh, Tony? Even if they didn’t do something so drastic as destroying an airport, if they just helped someone on the street because it was the right thing to do, would they be arrested for it? And if they were, where would they be held?

How the fuck are they supposed to be heroes if they have to sit around and wait for _permission_ to help!? How long would it take? How many people would die if they stood by and waited for a green light every time an attack occurred, when all this time, the exact reason why they exist is because they _don’t have to wait!?_ Because they are quicker, stronger, and more skilled than any other force in the planet!?

He’s sick of Tony acting as if he has all the answers and Steve is too damn stupid to understand them. And Steve is _furious. So furious_. He’s so sick of all this fighting.

(Why?)

(Is the world ungrateful? Is it restrictive? Is it unfair?)

(You knew that.)

(You knew all of that.)

(And you keep fighting.)

(Because you can’t stop it.)

He doesn’t _care._ He’s furious, and the Accords are just another example of everything that’s so _wrong_ about this future. Just another pile of paper that thinks itself more important than people’s _lives,_ more important than action when it’s necessary and helping people, as if bowing down to the demands of governments is the best course of action. It might be the easiest path, but that didn’t mean it was right. In fact, it rarely is.

Steve is not _stupid._ He understands what Natasha meant. He can understand her logic. Steve is not beyond admitting he lost his mind for a moment, when he realized _Bucky_ was in trouble in Vienna. He lost control. He acted recklessly. _He knows this._ Steve is stubborn and he’s impulsive, but he’s _aware_ of it, and he wishes people would stop treating him as if he didn’t. He’s only _human,_ alright!? He got sidetracked. It happens, even to him. Even to the mighty, the good, the righteous Captain _fucking_ America.

He’s just… He’s just _Steve Rogers._ He makes mistakes. And he admits it, that’s what he means by taking responsibility.

What he doesn’t get is this part. He doesn’t get it. How is signing the Accords taking responsibility? He can see why Natasha signed it. He knows her, probably more than he knows anyone else on the team, even Sam, and he can imagine what was her logic when she picked up that pen and put down her name. Natasha is adaptable. She can thrive no matter how terrible her circumstances are. Accords or no Accords, Natasha would have found a way to succeed, as efficiently as possible, with the least damage and maximum speed. She would’ve played the Accords like a child plays with her toys. She would have reaped all the benefits she could, and she would have dodged all restraints and idiotic rules like ballerina, so elegantly and neatly no one would even realize she’d done it. But she’s one of a kind. Nobody else had her skill or her ability, so she couldn’t expect anyone else to follow the same line of thought as she did.

He can see why Rhodes signed it too. Steve is not too familiar with him to be completely sure, but he knows Rhodes was basing his decision on his previous experience with the military. He talked about it extensively when they discussed the Accords.

(He also called you dangerously arrogant, remember that? Good Rhodey.)

Rhodes is a good man, and a good soldier. Steve knows that. He won’t insult Rhodes by calling him ignorant— but Steve has been a soldier too, and he _knows_ the military is not as good as it seems. Taking orders blindly is dangerous. He sees why he signed it; but he should have _at least_ been a little suspicious, a little wary, a little concerned for Ross’ intentions with the Accords. Steve _knows_ the Accords are not something Ross just came up with out of nowhere, 117 other countries had been involved in their creating, but _Ross_ is their immediate representative of them in the US, he’s the first obstacle they would need to face in case something went wrong, and how did that simply escape Rhodes’ attention?

Vision… Steve is not sure what Vision had thought. Vision is a being beyond Steve’s comprehension, not affected by emotions and contradictions as humans are, and although Steve can see the benefits of a thought process based completely on logic, _logic_ doesn’t always save lives. There is so much value in emotion, in instinct, even if Steve sometimes tries his best to fight off his own. Contradictions are an important part of being _human._ Vision… Steve doesn’t know if Vision truly understands what it means to be human. He doesn’t know if Vision can see how deeply his decision to sign could have affected human lives beyond the law. Because law changes. But _poison…_ bitterness is much, much harder to remove. Steve can understand; but he can’t agree.

And then.

_Tony._

Tony is – as always – the one who pisses him off the most. It’s like a game to him, probably, _how can I piss Steve off today? How can I goad him into a fight just for the hell of it?_ Steve tries not to be unfair to him, because he knows Tony uses his smiles and his over-the-top persona as a mask, as an _armor_ , and only those who are really looking for it can see past that fake exterior, but it’s really hard for him to do so. Steve is not going to lie and say he can’t see it, because he _can._ He’s seen it. He saw it in Tony’s eyes when he told them _they would lose_ , and Steve pushed back and told him they should lose _together._

He saw it when Tony told them he was trying to keep him from tearing the Avengers apart.

And Steve told him _you did that when you signed it._

(You are cruel, Captain.)

(Much more than you realize.)

(Or maybe you do.)

(And you just don’t care.)

Steve— Steve is not trying to blame Tony for everything, alright? He said something cruel in the heat of the moment and he regrets doing it. He apologized for that exact reason. He knows Tony was trying to do what he thought was right. But _why_ would Tony think that _handing over his freedom to the Accords was the right thing_ is what Steve doesn’t understand. Tony is so controlling. He is so paranoid. He’s _haunted_ by the things he did, Steve knows he is, he’s _seen_ it, so why would he think that handing over the power to make decisions to someone else would be the solution to make amends? He knows what it means taking responsibility. He’s done it before.

He created Ultron mindlessly, because he was scared of his nightmares about the Chitauri, and once he realized what he’d done, he helped them destroying it. _That’s_ what Steve wants. He wants them to fight together again, all of them against the world, because that’s how it should be.

But he was so blind. Grieving. Once he learned about Charlie Spencer he stopped thinking, he was desperate, he was so desperate for someone to come along and take the weight of the guilt off of his shoulders he just ignored all the warning flags and signed his name— and signed away his freedom.

( _When he said Bucky, I was suddenly sixteen again._ )

(Isn’t that right, Cap?)

(Oh, sorry. I guess not everyone gets a free pass on being irrational once in a while, isn’t that right?)

No, no, that’s not it. For fucks sake, Tony, Steve is trying to understand. He is, ok? He can’t quite make it there yet, but he’s trying. He doesn’t want to just accept they are over. He won’t.

But— God, he wishes they could talk about it. He wishes Tony would pick up the damn phone and _call him,_ and for once they would talk without trying to insult each other or make each other bleed. He wants to understand. He really does.

He can’t _fix this_ if he doesn’t.

(Asking is not enough.)

(You have to listen.)

He wants to. He really wants to.

But how can he do it if Tony won’t let him?

(A phone works both ways, genius.)

_But will he pick it up if Steve calls?_

The walls have no answer to that question.

(I’m starting to get worried, Captain. Talking to the walls? Hallucinating about the enemy? You should get that checked out.)

_Tony is not an enemy._

(No?)

(Well then.)

(Then what am I, Captain?)

He doesn’t know.

But he wishes he did.

 

_Tony._

Is what he sends.

A single word. His name.

The phone is shaking in his fingers, his hands sweaty and breath stuttering, leaving in harsh pants through his parted lips.

His heart feels like its trying to beat out of his chest.

 _Tony,_ is what he wrote, and nothing else.

And he hates himself for feeling abandoned when a reply never comes, despite him _knowing_ it wouldn’t.

 

Steve thinks about it for a long time. His body thrums with energy, restless and uncomfortable, his heart beating in a strange rhythm; Singing a song of uneasiness, that dreaded feeling that only doubt can make you feel, the dark pit of fear for the unknown, for what he might find inside his head if he looks for it too deeply.

He thinks about trust. He thinks about danger.

He thinks about Tony. About the Avengers breaking apart.

The thing is—Steve really misses the life he used to have. Which is funny, in a very cruel way, because he didn’t think it was possible for him to feel like that. For a long time, he thought he would never find any kind of normalcy in this strange new world, because for days on end, all he could think of was everything he missed from _the forties._ Whenever he wasn’t losing himself to the fight, the uneasiness, the pure, almost instinctual drive to keep himself working to stop his own dark thoughts, he was walking around like a ghost, visiting museums and memorials, staring at name plaques for so long his vision would get blurry. He would think about his friends growing old and dying, about Peggy moving on and having an entire life without him there, not even to cheer her on, and he would _lose his mind._ How panicked he felt inside, knowing he was so small still, despite all he’d been through, because the world had given him no time for rest; No time _at all._

He didn’t think he would get attached to anything in this new century because inside, he was still living in the old one. He always felt like an outsider, looking in on a world he couldn’t understand, that moved too fast – and for a man like him, moving too fast is like having his greatest nightmare coming to life.

But despite all of that, he _does._ He _misses_ what he had. He misses the US and the small, but familiar life he had there, he misses the Compound, he misses—

Dammit. He misses Tony. He misses Rhodes and Vision. In a weird way, he almost misses Fury and Hill too. Steve gets so damn attached to people, he can’t help it, because he’s know ever since he was little that there’s so few people in this world you will actually keep for a long time. Life is fickle. People change. Time passes. But Steve has had so many things taken away from him he can’t resist the urge to fight back, to bare his teeth and attack, to hold his ground, even when his ground is unsteady, simply because it’s _his._

(You almost signed it too.)

(Do you remember?)

 _There’ll have to be safeguards, Tony,_ he’d said, and he could still taste the resignation and the worry in his tongue, going down his throat as he swallowed them back down, hating the feeling of being pushed back into a corner.

He wanted a way out.

_He wanted a way out._

(You would’ve signed.)

(You would’ve given me the benefit of doubt.)

And then—then Tony said what he’d done to Wanda and he just… _God,_ why was Tony _like that!?_ Controlling, paranoid, so _infuriating!?_ What was it about him that he just—he was incapable of trusting them!

(Oh, that’s rich. You don’t trust me either, darling.)

What they have… is not trust. It never was. If it was, Tony would’ve listened, _Steve_ would’ve listened, and they would’ve found a way out. Tony is a genius, Steve is a tactician. They could have come up with something. _But they didn’t_.

Benefit of doubt is not trust. It’s just an excuse.

(Look at us _._ )

(We’re idiots, aren’t we?)

Both of them, only extending olive branches when it’s convenient. Only when it’s too late. Only when the war is already at their doorstep, forcing its way in, and they’re too busy looking away to hold it back. And now they’re here— worlds apart, in opposite sides of the fight, when they should be together and helping each other.

Why was it so hard for them to connect? Are they just... too different to function as a unit? Are they really just a time bomb, one that has finally exploded and can never be assembled together again? All the time they spent together— had it been just borrowed time? Were they just… fated to failure?

Steve doesn’t know. There is so much he doesn’t know. He wishes he could pinpoint a reason why is it so hard for him to trust Tony, even though he knows Tony is much more than his _genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist_ façade,  but he can’t. He has placed his life in Tony’s hands more than once, and Tony had done the same to him, but for some reason, they can’t truly trust each other.

(How many people do you trust, honestly?)

(You love people, Cap.)

(But you don’t trust them very much.)

What if—

What Tony was right about the Accords? What if _Steve_ was right? Would they ever be able to admit to the other they were wrong— and go back to what they were? Can they simply move past this? What if they _both_ were right? What if they _both were wrong?_ How can they ever know?

_Will they ever find out, if they never meet again?_

Steve doesn’t sleep that night.

But it’s not a sleepless night like all the others.

Because this night, his nightmares come even though he’s fully awake.

 

Princess Shuri finds him first thing in the morning, while he’s wandering back inside, walking through the halls like a damned ghost.

“Are you ready to pick up your suit?” She asks him, but she’s hauling him in the direction of her lab before he can say anything, still too out of it to answer quickly enough. “My brother did tell me not to get too crazy with it, but I don’t listen to him, and I made you a great armor that is twice as light and three times stronger. Similar to the Black Panther suit. I took some liberties with the design, of course, because the whole red and blue color scheme was just terrible, but I can change it if you prefer another color. I heard you were an artist when you were younger. You probably have some preferences for color combinations and things like that. We can work something out.”

And it’s very nice of her, it really is— but Steve is not really listening. She brings him all the way down to the lab, and makes him stand there as she brings in the—

The _suit._

“What do you think?” She smiles wide, gesturing to the mannequin with excitement. “Looks cool, doesn’t it? What do you think about the colors? Would you like something darker? I didn’t think you would like to have an all-black suit like my brother, but who knows. I think blue is a good color on you.”

It’s… It’s incredible. It is absolutely breathtaking. It’s sleek and tight, but in all the right ways, the kind of fit that would make him agile without restraining his movements. He knows jus by looking at it, because Steve has the terrible habit of not checking the sizing of his clothes when he buys them, and he always has clothes that are too small or too tight for his now too-large body. So he knows about fitting. The suit is darker, much more minimalistic, no longer cluttered with pockets and straps and lines, perfect for stealth, discreet enough that he could wear it under his civilian clothes and no one would ever know.

It’s beautiful. Steve can’t stand to look at it.

“I can’t take this.” Steve blurts out, unthinking, and he immediately backtracks. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, this is very beautiful, but it’s too much. I can’t take it. You’ve done more than enough for us.”

“What do you mean _you can’t take it?_ ” Shuri asks, slapping her hands on her hips indignantly. “What are you going to do? Wear that old thing to battle?” She points back to somewhere behind him, and he turns around and—

And there it is. His suit. His Captain America suit.

_Torn at the shoulder. Scratches on the thighs and knees. Burnt at the left wrist._

Exactly how he left it. Exactly as it was, when he left Siberia.

He steps closer to it without thinking. Like a siren song, the suit drives him closer and closer, and he follows its spell, hypnotized, feeling something close to nostalgia blooming in his chest, taking over him like a storm would sweep away a shore.

(Nostalgia, huh?)

Yeah.

But it’s gloomier. It’s…. lonelier.

“Captain?” Shuri calls, and Steve startles, realizing he has been standing in front of his old suit for minutes now, just staring at it, trying hard not to think about the tears and the cuts and what exactly they meant.

“Princess.” Steve turns back at her, his eyes wide and shiny, knowing fully well he must look like a madman to her right now. But it’s fine. It’s fine. “I can’t thank you enough for your gift. It’s beautiful. A work of art.”

After all, they all get a little irrational sometimes. When it’s something they love.

“But I can’t accept it. I have a suit, and it’s still in working condition. It might not be the best, but I can use it. I…” Steve pauses, breathing in deep. “I’d like to keep it. I can fix it. It’s more than enough.”

(You will fix it.)

( _God_.)

(I hope you do.)

“Oh.” Shuri exhales softly under her breath, as if she had just had an epiphany. “I see.”

And to be fair, she probably does.

_She’s a genius._

_And Steve is a damn sentimental fool._

Shuri watches him for a moment, her expression thoughtful, the tilt of her head curious and kind at the same time. “Well… alright then, Captain. You can keep it. It’s _horrible_ , but you can keep it. _As long as you let me fix it first!_ ”

A chuckle escapes Steve’s lips without his permission, but he’s _glad._ He’s so truly glad. “Thank you, Your Highness. It means a lot to me.”

“Yes, I can tell.” Shuri smiles at him, a beautiful and sweet smile, and she steps forward to stand beside him in front of the suit. “It’s alright. I get it. But are you _sure_ you don’t want me to tweak it a little bit? Add some cool weapons to it? Paint it another color, at least, because that red and blue is just offensive.”

“Well.” Steve hums, trying to imitate her and her brother, and by the flicker of amusement in her eyes, he fails miserably at it. “I do like the dark blue.”

Shuri grins so wide it must hurt her cheeks, but it is one of the most incredible things Steve has ever seen in his life.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

 

She gives him back his suit, exactly as it was. Fixed, but not different.

Just darker. Just… more somber.

Steve likes it. All he has to do is one more thing.

He reaches to the silver star right in the middle of the suit’s chest, pulling the tip with his blunt fingernail until it gives a little, and then he grips the corner with his fingers and completely pulls it off, ripping it from the fabric cleanly.

_There._

He feels like it’s only fair.

 

It takes him a day or two. He’s not proud of it, but… but he has no other excuse. He needed some time. He needed to think.

He keeps himself busy by taking walks with Bucky in the garden, going over plans with Sam, watching Shuri work in her lab. Mostly, he goes through the motions absentmindedly, his mind always a little too far away from the present, his heart beating tender and sore, still bruised from the fight. He wishes it could heal like his body does, like his fingers did, so he could think about it calmly— and not… not having his judgment skewed by his sorrow.

(Someone pinch me, did you _really_ listen to me this time?)

_God, Tony. Please, let him rest._

So it does take him a while. But he doesn’t run from it. It wouldn’t be fair, it would be _hypocritical_ of him to run from it, when all his life he prided himself in never backing down in face of conflict. It’s just… It’s just that it’s _much harder_ to do so when the one you have to fight is a friend. A good friend.

_Family._

“Natasha.” He calls, quietly, when he finds her sitting on a chair polishing her knives, methodically and carefully. She doesn’t tense when she hears him speak, but she does stop, in anticipation. He doesn’t feel threatened, but it does pain him that she doesn’t immediately raises her eyes to look at him. “I’m sorry.”

 That gets her looking up. But she still doesn’t move.

“I’m sorry.” Steve repeats, because he wants to make sure she can see the sincerity in his eyes when he says so. “I didn’t mean to act the way I acted. I didn’t mean for us to fight. I never wanted that.”

Natasha considers him for a moment, silently, and then she places the knife on the table and reclines back, allowing herself to be unguarded in his presence. It feels good to see it. It feels better. It feels… _right._

Because that’s how it’s supposed to be. They shouldn’t fight.

_They are family._

They have to trust each other.

“It’s alright.” Natasha says, her tone equally quiet, if not a little regretful. “I’m sorry too, Cap.”

Steve takes this as permission to sit down next to her, in a chair nearby. He doesn’t pull his chair closer, but he does recline forward, placing his elbows on his knees, so eager, so determined to look her in the eye as he says his next words, because if he doesn’t do this, it will all be for nothing. He’s already aching and hurt. He’s already cracked at the corners. Natasha threw all of her emotions and vulnerabilities at him, using them as weapons, and it’s only fair he does the same, that he should expose his heart to her as a price to getting her trust back.

_It’s scarier than the battlefield._

(But you don’t run away from your problems, Captain.)

_Not anymore._

“You did… You did say some things that got me thinking.” Steve admits, and he’s surprised to find that the words don’t feel like a punch in the gut when he says them. It’s just… It’s just the truth. He has to tell her the truth. “So… just know that. I was listening. I have to think about it, but I was listening. I don’t know if I’ll ever agree with you. I don’t think I can. But that’s not the end of the world.”

Natasha tilts her head sideways, just a little, curious, but the gesture makes her seem so much _closer,_ so open and present, so gentle and caring. Steve thinks it’s probably insulting how jarring he finds it, but he does. It’s so overwhelming to see Natasha so unafraid of being soft, of being simply… _human_ , someone who is as bruised as he is, who is scared and is missing home just like everyone else.

He’s so glad he has Natasha on his side. Even though he _knows_ he doesn’t fully understand why.

But he’s glad. He’s so very glad.

“We can compromise. We can try. I _promise_ you I’m going to try. It’s more important that we stay together rather than _how_ we stay together.”

Natasha lets out a shaky breath, and Steve pretends he doesn’t see the way her eyes become shiny with unshed tears. But she holds them back, and she nods. And when she speaks, her voice is grateful.

“Thank you, Steve.”

And because it feels right, he doesn’t know why, but it does— he reaches out and holds her hand, just as she does the same and holds him back, and they stay like that for a moment; Both of them enveloped in a fragile silence, holding onto each other like a lifeline, _really_ looking at each other’s eyes, like it’s the first time they’ve actually done it. He has never connected with Natasha like this. With any of them. This is incredibly new, this deep, unwavering trust, the kind of bond he expected to have only with Bucky for the rest of his life…

And now he’s here. _Making amends. Building family._

The future is really determined to swipe him off his feet, isn’t it?

(You know it, darling.)

“So.” Steve sighs, pulling back slowly and reclining on his chair, before giving a nervous chuckle, suddenly realizing how extremely overwhelming that felt. His hands are shaking. “You still up for this?” Steve asks coyly, looking at her from under his lashes, as if she couldn’t see right through his ridiculous attempt of sounding innocent.

“For what?” Natasha asks back, but she is smirking. This is good. This is _right._

“Fighting. Together.” Steve slaps his hands on the armrests, just so he keeps his hands busy, trying to shake away some of the incredible sense of vulnerability he’s feeling. Not all of it, though. Just a little. He feels like he’ll need to get used to it. “We can help in smaller conflicts, gather intel, stay out of sight. Even if it’s not much. But it’s not right if we just stand still. I know we can help, and I think we should.”

A pause.

“We should always help as we can.” He says in a whisper. “Because we don’t know when we’ll be able to come back.”

“You know I’m always up for a fight, Steve.” Natasha assures him. “But I’m sure you know now… we absolutely _cannot_ be seen.”

(And you know why.)

(Don’t you?)

“I know.” Steve takes a breath, ignoring the way it sounds so shaky when it passes through his chest, and he forces out a small smile and a huff, trying to keep things light. Just for now. For now, this is enough. “Maybe I should let my beard grow out. Might help with the disguise.”

“You want to go for full outlaw, fugitive kind of look? Really?” Natasha raises her eyebrows, taking the bait. “Hm. You might be able pull it off. You should do it.”

“How about you dye your hair blonde?”

“I’ll do it if you do.”

“Deal.” Steve laughs as Natasha huffs, giving him a genuine smile, before picking up her knife again and going back to polishing it. Somehow, that makes him feel happy. It makes him feel normal. So it’s completely genuine and instinctual when he calls her one last time and says:

“Nat? Thanks.”

_Thank you for not giving up on us. On your family._

Natasha gives him a fond look, nodding, but she doesn’t say anything on it. But it’s enough. It’s more than enough.

“Let’s go back to Clint and Wanda.” she suggests. “We’ll gather intel and start from there. I heard there’s a weird thing going on in Cairo, so maybe we should check that out.”

“Sounds good to me.”

And it does.

So Steve goes to tell Sam and king T’Challa, and they start making plans.

It sounds like things are finally getting better. Like they are finally starting to heal.

(And like a fool, you believe in it.)

(Don’t say I didn’t warn you.)

 

But the world is never kind, is it?

Because what happens in Egypt a few days later almost tears him apart.

It lasts only a second, but it’s enough. He couldn’t even brace himself for the impact. He couldn’t have known. He should have, but he didn’t, because the one time it happened before, he pushed it to the back of his head. He swallowed it down like he did everything else, gulping down poison like it was water, letting the dark pit inside him grow unsupervised, ignoring it as if it would just disappear. He ignored it because _Ross_ had been the one to say it, and Steve had rejected everything he said on principle, only half listening to his self-important and ridiculous speech, his web of lies and dreams of control.

But he should’ve listened.

That’s why it kills him. Because he wasn’t ready.

He wasn’t ready for it because it wasn’t an attack. It wasn’t a knife coming down on his back, a kick to his face, a hand to his throat. It’s not someone screaming at him. It’s not a person who is _there_ , who he can try to bargain and reason with; it’s merely the message they left behind, like a fingerprint, like the evidence of a murder he was too late to stop, always a fool, always _too late._

It is a giant image of his shield, painted on the wall, the red, white and, blue faded over the years, dusty with dirt and sand, torn off by the cracks on the wall. Shattered. An ugly reminder of what he left behind.

And on the middle, a red splatter. Dark, dark red, almost black, staining the center where the star should be. 

_The phantom sensation of blood between his gums. Blood on his mouth; Blood on his tongue._

And a word.

Jagged letters and distorted handwriting. In red. In _black._ Tainting his symbol, his shield, his—

_Him._

(Oh, Captain.)

He can’t read it, but he doesn’t need to.

The intent is clear.

He knows what it says.

(I tried to warn you.)

(I’m sorry.)

“Cap?” Natasha calls him, when she notices he hasn’t stepped out of the Quinjet. She hasn’t seen it. She didn’t notice it. _But he did._ “We have to go.”

Steve goes.

But it is too late.

(I’m sorry, darling.)

(But I tried to warn you.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I absolutely hate how the MCU just used the Accords as a way to propel a conflict with Bucky as a center piece, like he was nothing more than a mere object for which Steve and Tony are fighting over. I know the movie is entitled Captain America: Civil War, and not Avengers, but still. Bucky deserves much more development than that, let me tell you. The Accords, by themselves, bring to the table a discussion that's so damn important - and they just glossed over it for the sake of a brawl in a parking lot. Nice going, MCU, real classy. 
> 
> That deleted scene in AoU? The one with Cap's image vandalized? That shit is extremely important. It shows how deep the MCU was willing to push the public's opinion of the Avengers to the point it would force the Accords to be created. And in the end, what we got was.......... this. Real nice. I'm not bitter about it at all.
> 
> That's not even all of it. There are so many details I couldn't include here because they would never be explored in Steve's POV. Natasha's and T'Challa's condradictory decisions being my main concern, honestly, but not the _only_ concern: Ross' influence. The legal process of the arrest in Germany and the Raft. The actual content of the Accords. So many important things. Fucking Civil War, man. It drives me crazy. 
> 
> Also, a lot of you have expressed very interesting opinions on the comments section. First of all, keep them coming, but second of all, if you are interested in talking about it in depth or talking about any other moment of the franchise that is not included in the CW timeline, feel free to stop by my [tumblr](http://machi-kun.tumblr.com/) and send me a message. I don't shy away from confrontation and I love arguing. Come at me. Don't be shy.
> 
> Now, I have a question for you. A friend of mine mentioned she'd like to see my interpretation of Steve in IW, especially about a... certain statement. You know the one. If you're here for the Stony, you know. As of now, this fic is tagged as Possible Spoilers for Avengers: Infinity War, because it's now up to you to decide if you'd like to see that extra scene here. So let me know! It wouldn't really change my initial plans for this fic, it would just expand a little bit further into the character arc Steve will go through in the Part 2 of this series. If you're not planning to read that, it might be interesting for you, because it'll basically conclude Steve's emotional analysis of all canon content until IW without any further plot to build upon. But if you guys rather have this fic focused only in CW, I can always make a separate one shot to expand on my thoughts about the canon IW content and how it would fit into my Fix-It later on. So drop me a line and tell me what you think. 
> 
> For now, this is it. Accords, check. Next up, Bucky and Siberia. 
> 
> Get ready, kids. I'm gonna make that Angst tag worth my while.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~When will the control I had over my word count return from the war?~~
> 
> I can't believe this happened. I really had to cut the final chapter in half because the word count just went too crazy. 20k, and this is only half of it. This has officially spiraled out of my control. Send help.
> 
> You see, there's way too many things that bother me about CW for me to keep quiet. And once I started writing Wanda, this chapter just wrote itself, really. It might sound odd to you, the fact that I got a bit sidetracked writing about Wanda when this is supposed to be a chapter about Bucky, but I hope I can show you how important the analysis of Wanda's story is to my interpretation of Steve's character. As I've previously mentioned in the comments (once again, if you haven't read them yet, I encourage you to do it, because there's a lot going on in there as well. You're gonna have fun, I promise.), Wanda and Bucky share a very similar story - and so, Steve reacts to them in a very similar manner. The thing is: Steve has a longer history with Bucky, and being so, he is much more protective of him. Making Steve realize how his decisions impact Bucky's life and perception of self in a quick fashion would take a very extreme and very specific set of circumstances, which I'm not willing to create here, as this is a Canon Compliant work - and when I say extreme, I mean extreme. Something that simply doesn't fit the narrative created by the MCU canon. It's a shortcut that comes at a very high price, the price of cutting almost all character development in favor of one single problem, which is an inefficient and unsatisfying solution. So we're not gonna do that.
> 
> But there IS a path we can take to bring him there that doesn't require that sacrifice. It's the path I believe should be taken, if we truly wished things to get better in the future - and stay better, for real, for half an arch cannot stand. As long as there's unresolved tension and unexplored issues, the Avengers can't become the team I wish they were, so we'll have to take another route to make sure no stone is left unturned in this story.
> 
> And so, before we get to Bucky, let's go through Wanda. And all the projecting, expectations and weirdly protective beliefs Steve applied onto her when she joined the team. Let's be honest, I'm not fully convinced about Wanda's characterization in the MCU. In fact, I'd go as far as to say she's no more than a very convenient placeholder, whose powers and motivation bend into whatever shape the writers and produces require her to, and spends almost 100% of her time having her personal story affected by the men that surround her, that make her choices for her and make her seem like a person with no independence whatsoever. The kind of character I usually don't spare a glance at. Let's fix that, shall we? She's supposed to be an Avenger, so let's make her one. It might take a little while; after all, Steve is nothing if not stubborn, but that's exactly why we're here. We're making sure he learns some stuff. Why not include 'how to properly support your guilt-ridden teammates' on that list? After all, he's gonna need it very soon.
> 
> And while we're here, let's take a peek inside Clint's mind as well. I feel like it's only fair - he is the one who plays a huge influence in Wanda's life after Pietro -, and I don't know about you, but even though MCU Clint is not the most interesting character to begin with, what bothers me the most about him is not that, but how contradictory he is in his decisions. You know, like the time he recruits the person who mind-whammied his entire team, after his speech of "do you know what is like to be undone?", when he was mind controlled a few movies back? Yeah, that kind of stuff. So let's address that as well, just for fun.
> 
> But before we continue, I'd like to ask you to be careful and check the tags once again, my friends. You might notice that in addition to the new ScarletVision tag (which turned out to be much more prominent than I expected, so if you don't like it, please be aware that their relationship is going to be discussed in detail in this chapter), there is also a new tag that states that from now on, there are references to **Self-Harm**. It is nothing too serious, nothing involving blood or any kind of objects, but it does mention some unhealthy behaviour and unconscious self-harm in Steve's part, such as neglecting his basic needs and seeking risky and painful experiences, and it's always important to be careful with your mental health. So please, be safe.
> 
> So, there you have it: Chapter 3, Part 1. Brace yourselves, this is the beginning of the downhill. And if you don't see what the hell Wanda has to do with Bucky and Siberia yet, don't worry.
> 
> You will.

 

(Steve stops counting.)

(Or at least, he tells himself he does.)

( _Liar._ )

 

Every time he hears about it, it hurts a little more.

He hadn’t noticed how much, before. Maybe because he was trying not to notice it. Maybe it was all finally catching up to him, slowly but surely, every time he allowed himself a moment of quiet and a wander of thought. Maybe this is him finally coming down from the adrenaline high and feeling the throb of his bruises and the stinging of his cuts every time he moves, finally taking in the full extent of his wounds after the fight.

His thoughts haven’t been exclusively his own for a while now; But for the first time in months, he feels like he’s actually thinking about things clearly. Or at least, more clearly than he had before. And his thoughts have never felt so…  _heavy_ , before.

He guesses it only makes sense. He’s been feeling much more exposed these last few months, and feeling exposed had always made him feel cautious. It also made him feel anxious, defensive and ready to fight, but he can barely find within himself the will to push himself into an argument just for the sake of it, even if there’s still a huge elephant in the room whenever he and Natasha are alone somewhere. Their friendship is slowly making its way to what it was before— he always knew he can count on her on the field, but now, he’s been counting on her with his heart too, trusting her to listen to him when they share a peaceful moment and Steve admits under his breath that he’s  _tired_ , that he feels  _wrong_ , and he doesn’t know why; and he relishes in the feeling of  _trust_ when she whispers back that she is feeling  _guilty_ , that she  _misses_ them,  _them_ , and Steve knows exactly what she means.

They are cautious. But maybe this is what they should have done from the start.

Caution makes him handle his thoughts a bit more gently. Sometimes, when it’s the middle of the night and he can’t sleep, he stares into nothing and picks apart his memories, from before, from the Accords, from Wakanda, and he tries to make sense of all of it together. It’s harder than it looks like.

It’s hard to accept the disparities between who he was and who he is, what he wished for and what actually happened, what is  _right_ and what is  _wrong._

More often than not, after long hours of going around in circles, he’ll sigh and run his hand through his hair, resisting the urge to tug at the longer strands just to feel some pain, even if it’s the slightest amount, telling himself that relying in pain as a grounding mechanism is not acceptable.

Not anymore. It’s high time he admits it doesn’t  _work_ , it only makes him feel worse.

He will never tell a soul, but in these nights, he feels like his age. The literal one hundred years everyone likes to mock him for, like his soul is far too old for his body, and the ache and the exhaustion he feels doesn’t come from sore muscles or cuts and bruises, but directly from his bones, down to the marrow and the blood, moving sluggishly inside his veins and across his body. Beaten down and weary.  _Old_ , down to the very essence of himself.

But it’s been happening more and more frequently, these days. Like right now.

They are sitting at a table inside a tiny and cramped shop, at early hours in the morning, after a night making rounds and fighting off some gang members on the east side of the city. They sit by a dimly lit corner of the room, behind so many other tables full of people taking their first coffee or eating a sandwich, all of them so sleepy and distracted that Steve, Natasha, and Sam are only kind-of hiding behind baseball caps and cheap sunglasses, and nothing else. It’s a bit risky, but they don’t care. Well,  _Steve_ doesn’t care, because he’s so tired he can’t be bothered to go back to their hotel room and change, just so he can have breakfast somewhere. He can only guess that Nat and Sam don’t mind either, as neither of them has complained about Steve’s recklessness, and they’re too in ridiculous disguises, eating bagels and chugging down watery coffee with sluggish hands and eyes hazy with sleep.

Steve watches the world around him with a weird feeling of detachment weighting down on his stomach. He observes quietly, cataloguing somewhere deep in his mind the way a stout man by the counter gets powdered sugar all over his mustache when he bites into a pastry. He counts the rhythmic beat of the pointy shoes of the lady two tables to the right, as she fidgets in her chair while taking a sip of her hot tea. He loses himself in the low but constant stream of words coming from the news broadcast on the tiny television behind the cashier. It all sounds distant, like background noise, static flooding his ears and making his fingers feel numb around his cup of coffee.

It’s like watching butterflies through a thick layer of glass, like the exhibit he once saw when he visited museums in California. He never liked those things, even with the frames full of colorful patterns and delicate structure. The cruelty of having such a fragile being pinned by its’ wings, the attempt of transforming death into beauty, hiding selfishness under a pretty casing. It makes him uneasy. He doesn’t feel like he’s a part of it. It’s the very same feeling he had when he first woke up in this century, when he stopped by the coffee shop and sketched for hours, and all the buildings he drew looked  _fake_. But they weren’t, they were right there in front of him, and he knew it. He told himself he wanted to grasp the new style of architecture, the arches and the columns, all the fine details; and he would draw them again and again, but they never felt right, simply because he hadn’t felt like they were  _real._

Like pinned butterflies, so still that they look like plastic. Like a world that moved on, that has forgotten them, that is no longer buzzing with the need of having closure for their conflict, because their conflict is no longer relevant to them.

And Steve keeps hurting. He hasn’t moved on.

(But you don’t want to, either.)

(A weird place to exist in.)

(Dreading the past. Dreading the future.)

(Suspended on air.)

_Frozen in time._

(Yeah, that works too.)

That’s how Steve feels when the people-watches. He wonders if Thor, who is beyond their comprehension of time, who has lived and will live long after they are gone… he wonders if he ever feels like that. Like he is always a bit detached, a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit perfectly, and he always knows he never will. Because the puzzle will change, with time. The pieces will fall apart and be replaced, the image they build together is going to morph into something else entirely, and he will always,  _always,_ be the odd one out.

The spare piece. The one who is still longing to complete the image that it’s supposed to belong to, but the image changes too fast, and he no longer has a place where he can fit into.

(You have to try, darling.)

_I’m trying. What am I missing?_

(You know what.)

A hand in his arm brings him back to attention, but he doesn’t startle. The touch is gentle, warm against the cold skin of his forearm, his skin clammy with sweat from the chase he gave the leader of the gang they cornered not too long ago. It’s comforting. Grounding.

“Cap?” Natasha calls, quietly, after taking a bite of a strawberry pastry. “Are you ok?”

She takes a glance at the tiny plate before him, the one they brought to the table along with the coffee cups just so they could pretend they are not running with absolutely no sustenance for almost 24 hours. She and Sam snagged a few bites almost immediately, but Steve hasn’t touched a single cookie so far. Nat must’ve noticed he isn’t eating much these days.

 “Yeah. I’m fine.” He says, and sips the coffee again so he has an excuse to not elaborate, and he catches Sam looking back and forth between him and Natasha, a huge piece of his bagel shoved inside his cheek.

“Right.” He murmurs, in a disbelieving tone. “You gonna eat that last cookie?”

Natasha takes her hand back, giving the tiniest huff of a laugh. “Just take it from his plate, he won’t even notice it’s gone.”

Steve raises an eyebrow at her, just because, ignoring the faint feeling of white noise fading away inside his head, deciding to focus more on the lighthearted banter between his friends. “You know I can hear you, right?”

She shrugs. “Not like you’re going to do anything about it.” And then she grabs a cookie and hands it to Sam, who leans back in his chair and enjoys his stolen offering with a smug smirk on his face.

Steve’s glad they’re feeling good enough to joke around a bit. It’s… not relaxing, exactly, but it does make him feel better, knowing they are feeling comfortable, they are ok, despite their current circumstances. Steve was right— they  _are_ getting involved in more serious trouble now that there’s only three of them, but Steve is not sure if the sudden change of rhythm is something they were  _all_ craving, or if it was just  _him._ Sam and Nat haven’t mentioned a word about how hard Steve has been pushing himself these days. Granted, Steve didn’t think they would have, whether because they are afraid he would shut himself off – which he would, and it pains him to admit it –, or because  _they don’t find it weird._

He thinks this is the consequence of living a  _superhero_ lifestyle: thinking violence is normal. Any kind of violence. The kind you fight off every single day, because it’s your job. The kind you’re forced to inflict, when violence is aimed your way.

The kind you inflict on yourself, because—

(Because you don’t know how to stop?)

 _Yeah,_ Steve sighs.  _That works too._

But he’s trying. He really is. Steve has never talked to Sam about it, but he knew Sam was in the VA when they first met, and Steve had done some research about it. It’s not like they had something similar in the forties— a place where soldiers could be vulnerable without fear, without feeling shame, openly and sincerely, not only behind closed doors and in hushed tones –, and learning about it had been interesting. Learning about  _war_ as a cause and not a consequence, about things like  _PTSD and depression_ , things that had no name and no room for discussion when he was younger. Times have changed,  _grief_ has changed, and it had been interesting to read about it.

It had been interesting; And only now he is realizing that it has also been  _useful._

Not at first. Of course not. This is the kind of thing Steve always thought was fine for  _other_ people to feel, but never himself. Like he had no right. People had seen worse than he did, had lived worse than he did— why would he feel grief? Why would he… Why would he be  _depressed?_ He doesn’t feel sad. He has no reason to be depressed. That and other lies, so many terrible things he would ignore in favor of years and years of conditioning, of being told real men grit their teeth and push through it, whatever  _it_ was, and they never look back.

He was never gentle with himself; Because caution is never his first response.

He only realized it a few months ago. It seems ridiculous that he would take so long to notice it, but Steve has never had so much  _silence_ to fill with his thoughts before. When he woke up, he used to spend the entire day at the gym, destroying punching backs and launching himself right back into work, keeping his knuckles bloody and his muscles aching, a longing for pain he didn’t even know he had.

It felt normal. He hadn’t realized it wasn’t.

He stopped when he discovered that Bucky was the Winter Soldier. But he didn’t stop because he decided to; he just threw himself into a different kind of fight, a different kind of pain, hurting and hurting and thinking it was normal. Then— trying to sacrifice himself in Sokovia. The Accords. The fight. So many instances in which he took violence as a necessity, and he hadn’t realized it.

Now he has no punching bags, no one to scream at, no outlet, he tries to hurt himself sometimes. Like when he punched the wall, the night he and Natasha fought. Like when he tangles his fingers in his hair and  _pulls_ , now that the strands are long enough to give him a very strong, very painful grip.

He stops himself from doing it as much as he can.

But that doesn’t erase the fact that he sometimes wants to do it, and every time he does, he remembers the words he read in that study about veterans and trauma.

_PTSD. Depression._

( _Guilt. Regret._ )

He’s starting to realize he has a lot of those.

“Eat something.” Natasha commands, pushing a strawberry cookie in his direction. “You’re taking your coffee black, it’s disgusting. Have some sugar.”

Steve looks at her, one eyebrow raised, and Natasha stares back with the unflinching reprimand his Ma used to give him when he was being purposefully difficult. That unimpressed,  _try to disobey me, I dare you_ , look, and it honestly amuses him to no end. He shakes his head minutely, shifting in his tiny chair, and just to please her, he grabs the cookie and takes a bite, the industrial strawberry flavor exploding in his palate like a bomb made of pure sugar.

 _Oh._ He is really hungry.

He hadn’t noticed.

Natasha watches him like a hawk as he shoves the whole cookie in his mouth, munching enthusiastically, and he reaches for a second one without prompting or insistence of her part. She seems satisfied with that. Steve eats the second one the exact same way, and he realizes that was not the best plan, because the cookie is dryer than he expected and the thing just sucks the moisture out of his mouth, and crumbs fall all over his mouth and chin.

Great. As if his stubble wasn’t itchy enough before.

There’s a ridiculous moment where he chews with difficulty and wipes his face at the face time, no doubt looking like a complete idiot, if the way Sam is looking at him is any indication. He wonders if there’s an old man joke coming on when Sam finishes his bagel, but it never does.

He really isn’t used to having a beard at all. It always took him so long to grow it out he would just shave the whole thing off, even if barefaced he would look even younger than he actually is. Steve scratches his cheek absentmindedly, annoyed, wishing the thing would just grow and reach a point where it would  _stop_ itching every few minutes.  

(Shave the goddamn thing off, then.)

But Steve doesn’t actually care enough to do it. Just let it grow out. At least, it’ll improve his disguise.

“You know…” Natasha says off-handedly, giving him a sympathetic smile. “If that’s really bothering you, you could shave it off. I wasn’t serious.”

Sam looks at her, confused, but he doesn’t ask. He turns to Steve, curious.

“I know.” Steve says. “But it helps. No one would expect me to have a beard.”

Sam wipes off the powdered sugar from his fingers, inclining forward in his chair so he can participate in the conversation. “Your hair is already longer than it ever was. How long has it been since you last cut it? Four months? Five?”

“Ever since Cambodia.” Natasha immediately says.

“It freaks me out a little that you noticed that.” Sam admits.

Natasha gives him a look so full of mirth that her eyes gleam under the shadow of her baseball cap.

“Can’t a woman pay attention to the cute boy once in a while?” She says, and her tone is so clearly laced with false innocence it almost sounds like a taunt, especially with the way she tilts her head to peer at Sam from under her eyelashes.

“Seriously, you need to stop, you make that sound like a threat and I have no idea how you do that. I’m not comfortable with it.”

“You’re cute too, Sam.” Natasha smirks, and Sam snorts out a laugh before reaching for his coffee cup again.

“Now I know you’re just trying to mess with me.”

Steve gives a little chuckle, amused by their antics, and gives them a fake stern look. “No flirting at the breakfast table.”

“No need to be jealous, man.” Sam murmurs behind his coffee cup, smiling. “I’m not going down that road, I know better than to mess with the Black Widow.”

Natasha gives him a smile, a genuine smile, and she chuckles before turning her head back to the television and relaxing in her chair. Sam goes back to his breakfast, so Steve follow’s Natasha’s cue and relaxes back in his own chair, watching the news with a mild disinterest while he fiddles with a napkin that was within his reach, just so he can keep his hands busy.

Steve has been out of the loop for a while. He knows that now— this is what Natasha meant when she said he was  _ignoring it._ After their fight… After they landed in Cairo and Steve saw the  _graffiti_ , the one with his shield vandalized in plain sight, a mockery of spilled blood and fear, Steve is holding tight to whatever information about them he can find. He wishes he could make this better, that he could send a message to the world and  _apologize_ , to explain he meant no harm, that this isn’t him ignoring their fears or their voice; This is him being forced to face the consequences of his choice of saving Bucky. And he would beg them to try and understand why he did it. Why he couldn’t let someone he loves to be treated like a monster, when he was just a victim. He thinks the world would understand.

But unfortunately, the world will probably never know.

So, he keeps tabs on everything that is being said about the Avengers and their missions and progress. There’s a lot of new information about the Accords, about proposed amendments and international debate, but a lot of it is described in a technical jargon Steve is not familiar with, so he’s not quite sure if he understands  _all of it._ But so far…

It seems… ok. It doesn’t seem like the world is falling apart.

(A great improvement from our usual routine, don’t you think so?)

He’s been trying to keep up with the Accords because now it is  _necessary._

Scott has returned to the United States a week ago.

He turned himself in— And they haven’t heard from him since. He didn’t expect anything different, honestly, it happened exactly as he thought he would. It’s not like Scott can simply pick up a phone and call them without giving away their position; But Steve is worried. Of course he is. Ever since he went back, the news channels have been discussing them non-stop. They won’t let Scott say a word, so almost everything being said is speculation and guessing, but that’s no reason to not pay attention. It’s the first time in  _months_ they’ve been so heavily discussed publicly, and he needs to know what is happening, where the public  _stands_ , because if something happens to Scott,  _anything_ , they need to be ready to act in whatever way is necessary.

Steve is paying attention now. All the time. He thinks about the Accords, over and over, about what could happen to Scott and what they would have to do if it did. He strategizes, but he does it in silence.

He waits. He always waits.

He knows that soon enough, there will be an announcement that is going to change everything. He can feel it in his gut, and he’s just waiting for it to happen. Scott’s case might change their plans entirely, might pave a way for them to go back – or ensure that they will never see the compound or be  _Avengers_ again, even if they were to return to the US someday. There’s a lot riding on this. His trial will put the Accords back on the table for discussion, will light up the flame of conflict once again, and they have to be  _ready_ for it if fire comes down raining on them again because of it.

 _That’s_ the kind of announcement he’s waiting for. Something on the Accords. Something on Scott. Something on  _them._

So, when he looks back to the TV and sees  ** _Billionaire Tony Stark engaged to his CEO_** _,_ the surprise he feels is completely, undoubtably,  _uncomfortably_   _genuine._

“What?” he mutters, completely out of his depth, feeling breathless all of a sudden.

“What?” Sam parrots, frowning at Steve’s expression, and then he follows his line of sight to the television, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise when he reads the headline.

“Would you look at that.” He comments, sounding lost in thought. “Gotta admit I wasn’t expecting it.”

_Neither was he._

It’s… probably not a good sign that he feels  _so_  uncomfortable with the idea of not seeing this coming. He feels like it says something about his personality that is not all that flattering, but he’s not sure what that would be. He just— he’s not sure how to feel about this. It’s more than shock. He doesn’t know how to describe it, but it’s not pleasant, and it weights heavily on his stomach.

(Should I be offended?)

(Why are you being weird about this?)

Despite the incredibly rude phrasing given by the broadcast, not even mentioning her name, Steve has no doubt in his mind that the woman Tony is engaged to is Pepper Potts. Not only because everyone in the world knows who the CEO of Stark Industries is, but— who else would it be? Who else would Tony love enough to marry other than Pepper, the woman he adored, the one who has supported him for years, even before he was Iron Man? Steve hasn’t seen Pepper in a very long time – and when he thinks about it,  _really_ thinks about it, it’s actually been a  _very_ long time, ever since… since before Tony had the Arc Reactor removed, he recalls –, but Tony is always mentioning her. They go on dates. They work together. They make a good team,  _Tony and Pepper_ , a duo so powerful they constantly brought the world to its knees, a pair that should never be underestimated.

They are a perfect match. Steve should be happy for them.

(And are you?)

But he—

_He feels weird about it._

“Yeah.” Natasha answers Sam, and Steve snaps back into reality, realizing he lost himself to his thoughts again. “They were going on and off for a couple of months, no one was sure if they were actually going to stay together for much longer.”

Did Natasha  _know_ about this? Why hadn’t se mentioned earlier?

(Why would she?)

(You’re sounding kinda worried there, Captain. Are you ok?)

“Doesn’t Pepper disapprove of Tony being Iron Man?” Steve presses for information, not sounding nearly as calm as he wishes to. He actually sounds kind of  _frantic,_ and he wonders if it’s just him of if the others can hear it too. “I thought that was a problem between them.”

“He hasn’t been Iron Man effectively for a while now.” Natasha says, raising one eyebrow at him, as if Steve’s being naïve and forgetting a very important detail. “How many times have the Avengers been called since we left? Two, three at most? It’s been a pretty slow year so far.”

“That’s usually the time people are  _glad_ they aren’t being attacked by aliens, Romanov.” Sam jabs at her, exasperatedly.

Natasha shrugs lightly. “We know better than that. Trouble always comes, sooner or later.”

“Let’s hope it’s later. We really need to get moving, and I’d kill for a hot shower and a week-long nap.”

Natasha gives a tiny nod in agreement, and they both start decluttering the table so they can leave. Steve gives them a quick glance, but his eyes don’t linger for longer than a second, his gaze being pulled back to the television like a magnet. He feels like it’s not quite  _sinking in_ yet. It’s not that he doesn’t believe it, because he does, and it’s not like he doesn’t understand, because  _he does,_ but—

And then, something catches his eye, and all his thoughts are shutting down so fast he can practically hear them all  _halt_ at the same time, like car tires making an unholy sound against the asphalt, the vain attempt of stopping a collision when its already  _too late._

“Nat.” he gasps, so softly is barely makes a sound, but the way his back straightens and his hand darts out to hold her forearm before she can get up is more than enough to gather her attention.

His immediate reaction is  _fear._ Fear, visceral and irrational, coiling deep in his belly, a sensation of wrongness and sadness blooming in his chest like the deadliest flower of all. It blooms wide and vicious, its vines squeezing around his heart and lungs, glowing in an electric shade of blue.

_It’s an Arc Reactor._

_Tony is using an Arc Reactor._

(You didn’t know, did you?)

(You didn’t know I was walking around with a Reactor again.)

(Why am I using it again?)

(Can you take a guess?)

He put it there.

_No, it can’t be._

He put it there.

_What happened?_

“Steve?” Natasha asks, placing her hand on top of his. “What’s wrong?”

“The Reactor.” Steve breathes, quietly, because saying too loud seemed impossible. “Tony is using a Reactor again. How long has he been using it?”

Natasha’s eyes widen a little, surprised, and she takes a glance to the TV so she can see for herself what Steve is talking about. When she does – when she  _sees it_ – her mouth thins into a hard line, a frown in her face, a sad shadow over her features. “A while.”

_Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say something?_

(What would you have done?)

_I did this to him._

(She doesn’t know that.)

Steve’s entire body freezes.

( _She doesn’t know that_.)

“How long?” Steve insists, because he has to know. He needs confirmation. It doesn’t matter if he can’t do anything about it now, he needs to know, he needs to make sure he didn’t do what he fears he did.

“I don’t know exactly, he was hiding it at first.” Natasha says pensively. “Somewhere around two months ago. It’s hard to tell, it’s not always visible. I don’t know what kind of Reactor it is, because it’s not the same as the one he had, but that kind of information is very hard to find, even with the connections I have. Especially since it’s Tony we’re talking about.”

“I thought the guy was an open book?” Sam asks, resting his elbows on the table so he can lean closer, his tone full of curiosity and underlaying questions.

“He is, for most things.” Natasha sighs. “But Tony’s heart was never too easy to reach.”

(Oh, Natasha.)

“But if he was in trouble.” Steve interrupts, and both Sam and Nat turn their heads to stare at him, their eyes sharp as knives at the firm and serious tone of his voice. “You could find out, couldn’t you? If he was—”

(Say it aloud, Captain. C’mon.)

“Dying.” Steve says, and the words hurt his throat, like sandpaper. “Or something like that.”

“I could.” Natasha assures. “I haven’t heard anything, but I could pull some strings just to make sure.”

Steve looks at her right in the eye, unyielding and firm, and his posture is so clear Natasha immediately grits her teeth and sits up straight, expression hard,  _ready for orders._

“Do it.” Steve commands, and his decision is  _final._

They start collecting their things and getting up almost automatically, both of them moving in quick, stiff motions, like the always do when they go on a mission. This is them entering a battle mindset as easily as breathing, going through motions as efficiently and precisely as possible, as a way to diminish risks and make the most of the available time. They learned how to work like this during their partnership at SHIELD, when they discovered Steve’s strength and Natasha’s skill for stealth created a deadly combination, and now this is just second nature for them.

Steve momentarily forgets Sam doesn’t know what they’re talking about. When he looks up and finds Sam still sitting down, looking at them as if they had just grown two heads each, Steve is almost tempted to ask if he’s waiting for someone to bring him a drink before they leave. It would probably sound a bit too sharp too, not enough amusement and too much impatience; but confused look in Sam’s face is enough to hold him back, to make him remember that Sam  _wasn’t there_ for it all.

“Should we be concerned?” Sam asks. “What are the chances of the guy hiding a life-threatening injury and acting like nothing is wrong?”

Steve and Natasha give him a look at the same time, and Sam nods to himself.

“Got it.” He says. “By that look, I’m going to assume the answer is  _pretty high._ ”

“He has done it before.” Natasha tells him.

“It wouldn’t take much for him to do it again.” Steve adds, curtly,  _worried_ ¸ and he stands there beside Natasha while Sam sighs, and pushes his chair back.  

“Communication issues, man.” Sam mutters to himself, getting up and slipping his sunglasses back on. “An enormous, gigantic pile of communication issues. Don’t know how you guys survived this long.”

“Luck.” Natasha says, and its unclear if she’s joking or not.

They leave money on the table and head out the shop, to the street that is already much more crowded than it was before, the sun way too warm and stifling for the heavy clothes they are wearing to hide their suits. Steve takes a look around, making sure no one is following them – a habit at this point –, and starts to head towards their current hotel, through alleyways and less visible areas, just to keep it safe.

Or he would have, if the communicator in his pocket hadn’t started ringing at this exact moment.

Long gone are the days where he would jolt in surprise when that happened; at this point, he knows it’s not the flip phone. Never mind they have different ringtones, at first, he always assumed – he always  _wished_  – the call was coming from the phone, that it was finally time to make things right, but he was always disappointed.

He stopped waiting for it.

(That’s not true.)

_No._

He stopped believing it would ever come.

But he hasn’t stopped wishing it would.

He takes the comm out of his pocket, turning right into an alley to make sure they are out of sight of civilians, and he takes the call, a small hologram materializing into thin air above the device in his open palm.

“Cap?” it’s the first thing he hears, in an urgent tone.

“Clint.” Steve greets, and Natasha and Sam come forward and stop right by his shoulders, one in each side, forming a protective barrier around Clint’s projection in Steve’s hand.

“Are you guys still in town?” Clint asks, a deep frown in his face.

“Yes, what’s wrong?”

Clint makes a pause and looks to the side, probably checking something on his side of the call they cannot see, but the concern in his face is clear as glass. “I think you guys should stop by before you go. We have a visitor.”

Steve can feel the way Nat and Sam both tense up, just like him, by the brush of their shoulders against his. Steve’s heart begins to race, beating loudly and painfully in his chest, hammering against his ribcage, like a bird desperate to find an open window, only to find itself trapped forever in a too small confinement.

“Who?”

“Vision.”

_Vision._

(He found you.)

_Vision is here._

(Just him?)

“He came to see Wanda, and he says he brought news.” Clint continues, half whispering into the comm’s mic, constantly looking over to the side over the projection.

“Is he—?”

“He’s alone.” Clint assures, when Steve suddenly chokes up and find himself unable to finish his sentence. “No sign of police or CIA. I think we’re clear, but you guys should stay alert on the way, just to be safe. But hurry up. He says we all need to be here.”

Steve doesn’t know what to make of that. He doesn’t know if it’s a trap, although he doubts Vision would ever do something like that, but the problem here is not  _Vision._ It’s Ross, and if he has any way of tracking Vision’s whereabouts, or the CIA, and if they’re waiting somewhere for them all to be in a single spot so they can be captured, or it’s—

Or maybe it’s Tony,  _Tony,_ trying to set them up to bring them back by force after the diplomatic approach proved to be ineffective.

(Why would I wait over a year to do that?)

_I don’t know, but you’ve been waiting for an alien attack for five years. If there’s one thing you are, Tony, is **persistent**._

(Alright, you got me there.)

Sam and Nat look at him, waiting for his reaction, and he makes a quick decision. Clint seems to think this is a time-pressing matter, and Steve can’t waste any more of it. He’ll decide, and see what happens. They’ll be ready for whatever the outcome. “We’ll be there in an hour.  _Don’t let him leave._ ”

Clint nods curtly, muttering an affirmative, but then he makes a quick pause and huffs out a hollow laugh, and says “I don’t think that’s not going to be a problem.” And with another look over to the side, a small smirk appears on his face, his eyes gleaming with an exasperated, confused mirth. “He doesn’t seem to be going anywhere soon.”

 

(If he were to keep counting, he might have counted Clint as the next one.)

(But he’s not sure if he should, because what happens then is not even about him.)

(But it’s enough.)

 

They arrive in less than forty minutes; After all, Steve is not the most careful driver.

“Where is he?” is the very first thing he says when he strides into the cheap apartment, after a sweep over the perimeter of the building that seemed to last forever, finding Clint sitting by the tiny sofa across the room with his eyes lost to a distant point in the horizon.

Clint snaps his head in their direction, his hand flying over to the side, behind the couch, but he stills mid-movement when he realizes it’s them. He relaxes, his shoulders sagging, and he seems about to make an annoyed comment about Steve’s haste and lack of tact when the  _manic_ look in Steve’s face registers in his brain, and he’s standing up, holding his hands in the air as a tamer would as he approaches an animal.

“Hey, calm down, it’s fine.” He assures, giving a pointed look to both Natasha and Sam as well, who have their own weapons at hand as well. “He’s alone. I checked a thousand times already.”

“It could be a trap.” Sam reasons, putting his gun away in his holster, as Natasha also relaxes and deactivates her Widow Bites.

“If it was, I would have activated the emergency call, not called you in the regular comm.”

“Better safe than sorry.” Sam shrugs.

“Why is he here?” Steve asks, still not standing down. He has no weapon, but he doesn’t need one, because he  _has been_ the weapon for a while now, refusing all gadgets Shuri insisted he’d keep when they left Wakanda so many weeks ago. His body is tense and his fists are balled up, the tendons aching with the stretch, his short nails digging into his palm, grounding him in the slight sting against his own flesh.

He forces himself to loosen them up a little bit. And when he does, he realizes he has to do almost double the effort to loosen up his shoulders.

“I don’t know.” Clint says. “I know he’s not here to bring us back. From what I can tell, no one knows he’s here. He doesn’t actually have permission to be here.”

“He  _broke the Accords_?” Natasha asks sharply, incredulous.

“Seems like it.” Clint exhales a deep, long breath, crossing his arms in a pensive stance. “I don’t even know if Stark knows he’s here. I didn’t get the chance to ask.”

“Where is he?”

Clint gestures to the side, to a closed door, and lowers his voice as he answers “Inside. He’s talking to Wanda.”

Steve looks at the door for a moment, unsure about how to proceed, when he realizes that this is probably why Clint kept looking to the side when they talked earlier. That had been almost an hour ago. “How long have they been in there?”

“An hour and a half. And counting.” Clint makes a resigned expression – the kind of expression an aggravated father would make over his child –, turning around and going back to his chair. “I’m not sure what’s going on there, I’m trying not to think about it too hard or else I feel like I might regret it. Not sure why, but I feel like I would.”

“Did he say why he came here?” Natasha asked, going around the ridiculously tiny center table to sit on the tattered sofa across Clint.

“He wanted to talk to us. He refused to tell me what about before you guys arrived.”

“And are you sure it’s a good idea leaving them alone?” Sam asks, taking a seat beside Natasha.

“It was Wanda who asked to talk to him.” Clint explains. “She was… really upset. She didn’t take their falling out well. The way she stopped him when I went to get her from the Compound, the airport… I think—”

He stops for a moment, considering his next words, but then he sighs and says, worriedly. “I think they had something. Or it was  _leading up_ to something, I’m not sure. Not-just-friends, but not-yet-lovers kind of thing. At least on her part. And now, seeing how Vision got when he saw her… I’m thinking it might be mutual. And it’s…”

He makes a high-pitched noise as he exhales, blinking slowly and raising his eyebrows, as if he’s having trouble keeping himself focused.

“And after losing her brother and her home, losing him too…” he comments, almost in a whisper. “I think she took it pretty hard. I thought it was best to leave them talking for a while.”

Clint looks at them, one by one, taking in their reactions to his words. But none of them says a word. Natasha adverts her gaze and nods, her lips closed tight, as if she  _understands_ , and Steve takes a deep breath, unsure how to respond, and he opts for leaning on the tiny counter in the kitchen, looking at the floor and pretending that discussing his teammates romantic feelings doesn’t make him extremely uncomfortable.

(Oh, so it’s not just mine, then?)

_Apparently not._

(I’m kinda disappointed to know that, Cap, not gonna lie.)

_I’m sorry I won’t be able to go to your wedding, Tony._

(It’s ok.)

(I’m not sure I would invite you at this point.)

God, Steve  _hates_ having too much time and too much silence in his head. When this kind of thing happens, he always thinks he is losing his mind.

“Ok, I’m not the only one who’s feeling a little weird about this, am I?” Sam quietly asks, bringing him back to the present. “I’m not opposed to it or anything, I think it’s great if they really like each other, but I can’t be the  _only one_ who feels a little weird.”

“No.” Clint admits, giving a light chuckle.

“Oh, good, just wanted to be sure.” Sam says in good humor. “I mean, when I think about it it’s  _kind of obvious_ , but… I still wasn’t expecting it to really happen, I guess.”

Clint raises an eyebrow, curious. “Kind of obvious? Really?”

“Yeah, I mean…” Sam makes a vague gesture. “They stayed together a lot in the Compound.”

“How does that translate to they were being obvious about it?”

“I’m just saying, they just seemed like they had something going on, you know?”

“Alright, drop it.” Steve interrupts, wildly uncomfortable, hoping they can’t notice it by his voice. “We’re not here to discuss the  _romantic life_ of our teammates.”

“That’s not why we’re talking about it.” Natasha cocks her head, turning her gaze at him. “Vision is not supposed to be in contact with us. We don’t even know how he found us. And what does it mean, if he’s  _broken the Accords_ to be here? Is he leaving too? Why would he do that?”

“I don’t think he’s staying with us.” Clint answers. “He mentioned Tony would be back at the Compound by Monday, so he probably should be gone before that.”

Steve straightens, alert. “So Tony doesn’t know he’s here?”

“I don’t know. He might.” Clint offers, but he sounds dubious. “He might be distracting someone so Vision could come here. That’s my current bet.”

“You think it’s Ross?” Sam asks.

“Ross, the press, I don’t know.” Clint shrugs, and then frowns deeply. “Something’s not adding up.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The news this morning. The  _engagement._  You guys saw that, right?” They all nod, confused. “It’s on every single news network in the world. The guy is a playboy, has two sex tapes online, known for not holding up one single stable relationship in years, and now, all of a sudden, he’s engaged. Hard to ignore that kind of story. It’ll keep everyone distracted for a least a week, and the timing? Is  _very_ convenient.”

“He and Pepper have been together for years, it’s not a surprise.” Sam retorts, making a confused face.

Natasha, however, frowns lightly and asks, in a very careful tone: “You think the engagement is fake?”

“I don’t think it’s the whole truth, that’s all.” Clint huffs, giving her a tight smile. “How long has it been since you guys last saw Pepper at the Compound? Since before Ultron? How many times has Tony mentioned her in these last few months before you left? I’m willing to bet  _not enough times for a couple_ and none of you guys noticed that.”

“They were in a really rough spot, it seems.” Steve says, and they all look at him at the same time, and he’s back to feeling extremely uncomfortable again. He shrugs stiffly. “I didn’t ask.”

“Yeah, I bet you didn’t.” Clint lets out a hollow laugh. “Listen, all of you are loners and I get it, good for you, but I’ve been married for years and I  _know_ couples don’t just recover from that kind of break like that. I looked it up, they haven’t been seen together for a really long time before this. And now they’re getting  _married_?”

No one can offer any comments about that. After a moment of silence, Natasha leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and asks Clint:

“Why are you so worried about this?”

“Look, I’m always worried, alright? Tony is basically the last connection you guys have back at the US. I have my family – don’t worry, I know it’s not that simple, you don’t have to look at me like that, Nat –, but I  _have my family_ , and what do you guys have?”

“You think you’re the only one with family back home, Barton? Really?” Sam jabs.

“Alright, alright, sorry, didn’t mean it that way.” Clint raises his hands in the universal sign for surrender. “But you are one crazy bastard, Sam, and don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. We all heard the story. HYDRA put up a manhunt against Cap and you dropped everything and went after him without thinking twice.”

“Like I was going to let the guy go fight the Nazis by himself and get killed.”

“My point.” Cint retorts. “But it’s different anyway. You didn’t live with your sister. You lived at the Compound. All three of you. Now you’re homeless, you’re fugitives, and have no backup. I still have a private property I can return to, if it was necessary. You guys don’t.”

“Congratulations. You want a medal for that or what?” Sam quips, reeling back in a mocking gesture of surprise.

“What I’m saying is that right now, as much as I hate to admit it… Coming back to the US would be a hassle without Tony. SHIELD is down, Fury is MIA and the government hates us. Scott decided to risk it, but has Pym Tech backing him up, and I have my family. I just think that we should pay close attention to Tony, for your sakes. And he  _is_ the liaison for the Accords and the team, now that Cap has gone rogue.”

“We’ve been keeping an eye on him.” Steve assures, and he doesn’t know why it feels so  _wrong_ admitting it.

“Yeah, and even still you didn’t think something was off about this.” Clint huffs, amused. “I’m just saying that you might not be considering some important details in there, Cap. Maybe ‘cause you’re not really seeing them.”

Steve frowns, taken aback by heavy, insistent suggestion he can hear in Clint’s voice, but he doesn’t know what to do about it. He’s not quite sure what Clint is trying to say. He doesn’t want to ask, not really, but he  _knows_ there’s something implicit in the words, and he doesn’t want to try and guess what it is.

Guessing never did him any favors. And with his mind becoming a game of dodging landmines, landmines that sound like  _Tony_ when they explode, he thinks it would be safer to let the topic slide.

Clint is still watching him, waiting for a reaction, when Steve is saved by the bell; or rather, the  _lock._

The sound of a key snapping open a lock makes them all turn their head at the same time in the direction of the door, which opens slowly and carefully with a soft groan of its hinges, only to reveal Wanda and  _Vision_ , side by side; Wanda, with her eyes rimmed red and shiny, her cheeks still damp from the tears, and Vision’s hand resting in her forearm, holding her gently, a touch so soft that feels far too intimate for a friend.

_They had something. Or they almost had something._

(Well. It seems like it didn’t go away, even after the fight.)

(How about that?)

As soon as they take a step outside the room, they both raise their eyes and startle, looking around the room to confirm if they are all present. Wanda unconsciously steps closer to Vision, placing her hand on top of his, and Vision turns back to her and gives her a kind, small smile, and Wanda sighs in relief before letting him go.

“Captain Rogers.” Vision greets, and his voice is  _just like_ Steve remembers, formal and carefully enunciated, his accent a perfect mirror of JARVIS’ old cadence and tone. “Agent Romanov. Mr. Wilson. It is a pleasure to see you again.”

In all honesty, seeing Vision again is  _striking._ It’s— It’s unsettling. Not because of his appearance, no, they are all used to that, despite the alien color of his skin and his irises, the too-careful way he moves or the calculated angles of his expression. No, it’s the suddenness of it all, the shock of meeting again after so many months apart with no contact whatsoever, not a message, not a  _word._ The last time Steve saw Vision, they were fighting. The last time Steve saw Vision, he and  _Wanda_ were fighting.

Being together again feels strange. And Steve wishes he could fall back into the ease he felt before, but the memories of Leipzig are all coming back to him at once and he feels himself raising his guard, slowly and cautiously,  _just in case._ He tries to hold it back, for Wanda’s sake.

But it’s hard to do so. At this point, it’s only muscle memory, really.

“Hello, Vision.” Steve greets with a nod, keeping himself very still as he waits for Vision’s next move.

Vision seems to notice it, but he doesn’t express any offense or dismay. He just carries on, as calmly as ever. “I wish the circumstances of our meeting were a little more friendly, Captain. It’s unfortunate that we can no longer be seen in public and find ourselves reduced to encounters such as this.”

“Wanda.” Clint takes advantage of the pause Steve makes before responding to interrupt, leaning to the side of the chair so he can see Wanda more clearly past Vision, who is blocking is sight. “You alright?”

Wanda clears her throat gently, rubbing her hand against her cheek to wipe away the moisture of the tears, and he sniffs before replying, her voice surprisingly steady: “Yes. Yes, it’s fine. Viz and I needed to talk, that’s all.” She pauses, and shoots Vision a light, unsure smile. “Everything is fine now.”

 “I assure you all I have no intentions of causing you distress.” Vision assures them, after a moment. “I am not here as an enemy. I am here as a friend— if I may still be considered that by you.”

“Of course you are.” Wanda whispers, giving him a light shove with her arm. “You are. You always will be.”

Vision looks back at her, nodding slowly, his gaze boring on hers intensely, and Steve sees from the corner of his eye the way Sam shoots Clint a look.

“I apologize for making you upset.” He says, and even though they all can hear it, it sounds like something that is meant only for Wanda.

“I’m glad you’re here.” Wanda tells him kindly. “It’s good to see you.”

Wanda squeezes Vision’s hand, a movement so shy and quick Steve barely sees it, but he  _does._ He can’t see if Vision squeezes back, because in a mere second it’s over, but that little display of affection tells him more than months and months of living together at the Compound ever did. When he thinks about it, as Sam said, it’s very obvious. But it feels… very different now.

_Why does it feel different?_

(You tell me, Captain.)

Wanda steps back a bit further and their moment passes. When it does, Vision turns to them with his expression serious, determined, and he takes a step forward to make sure they all can see him properly, before he announces:

“I am sorry for the abruptness of my visit, but I came here because I have some information that might be of your interest.” He informs, giving them all a look, to make sure they are all listening carefully. “I have been informed that Mr. Lang, the man codenamed Ant-Man, has successfully returned to the United States, as was his intention. His surrender peaceful and there were no disturbances, and all procedures following his arrest are according to protocol and he is now waiting for trial.  I was asked to pass along this message, as this information will not be divulged to public for at least a few weeks further.”

They all jump at the same time, shocked by the news. “Is he ok?” Sam asks, at the same time Clint asks “Where is he now?” and Steve demands to know “What about Ross?”.

“The Secretary of State hasn’t been able to interfere in Mr. Lang’s incarceration or appeal to justice in any way until now.” Vision assures Steve. “And we will make sure it continues that way.”

“ _We_?” Natasha inquires, a deep frown in her face.

“It is a group effort.” Vision says as an explanation, and the words sound like something he heard someone else say and he’s just repeating them, per request. “We unfortunately are lacking evidence to have the Secretary removed from his position at the moment, but with the lack of previous involvement with the Avengers and the combined defense with the Stark Industries legal team, Mr. Lang’s case is quite out of reach for Secretary Ross.”

_The Stark Industries legal team._

“So he won’t be going back to the Raft?” Clint insists, frantic.

“It is… unlikely.” Vision hesitates. “I cannot give you any true confirmation as the trial has not occurred yet, but for now, Mr. Lang is being detained at a penitentiary in Pennsylvania, not in any prison administered by the military. It is believed his lawyer will conduct an appeal to have him transferred to a correctional facility or something similar, but it is unclear if it will be an option. I’m afraid I don’t have all details about his defense appeal quite yet.”

“Will they try to reduce his sentence?” Natasha quips in again.

“As much as possible.” Vision nods. “I have been assured Mr. Lang’s lawyer is trustworthy and the arguments for the reduction of his sentence are appealing. The Ant-Man suit is unfortunately unavailable for the foreseeable future, as it is property of Pym Technologies, but it’s now detained by the government, so even if Mr. Lang obtains a reduction of his sentence, it might be difficult for him to be able to act as the Ant-Man from now on. At least for some time.”

“What about the Accords?” Clint presses. “Will they make him sign?”

“If Mr. Lang decides to partake in any international action while using the Ant-Man suit, yes. It will be necessary.”

Sam makes a confused sound. “Only in case he leaves the country?”

“Compliance with the Sokovia Accords is one of the requirements for permission to act in international grounds— or for non-American citizens. In case of domestic action, Mr. Lang is only restricted to American laws, as is every other American person currently acting as a superhero inside the United States territory.”

“How is that possible?” Sam says, indignant. “We had no choice. If we didn’t sign it, we would be forced to retire.”

Vision takes a careful pause before answering. “The Avengers are a government-funded initiative, Mr. Wilson. Our headquarters and our resources are provided by the government. If we wish to continue to our initiative while making use of public funds, we must oblige to a work contract. It is only logical.”

“And no one else has to do the same?”

“As far as I am aware, the heroes currently acting only inside the US territory are using private resources and have no association with the government, so they are not required to comply with the Accords. As for legal protection, they are only secured by those laws already in place in the American legal system.” Vision informs them. “So far, all active superheroes outside the Avengers Initiative are being protected by rights of self-defense and defense of others, and in certain cases, clauses of duty to rescue. The legal classification varies from case to case. It was considered that all current active heroes to be included under the protection of Good Samaritan Laws, but the suggestion has yet to make its way to congressional approval.”

 Steve  _has no idea_ what all of that means. He can take a wild guess and make some assumptions, of course, but— he hadn’t considered this before. He never thought about the Avengers as a government-endorsed group, just as a rapid-response team, and as most of their PR was handled by Tony and the group he hired from SI, he had never considered how  _other_ heroes might be handling their personal image and funds outside their group. Not that there were many, but…

_The number of enhanced individuals has grown exponentially since Mr. Stark announced his identity._

What about those people Tony  _wasn’t_ endorsing?

He doesn’t know.

(Easy, isn’t it? To put on a suit and go out there, helping people?)

(But politics always exist, Cap. They are always there.)

(I bet you’re missing being just a comic book legend now, aren’t you?)

“So, in simple terms.” Sam says slowly, raising his eyebrows at Vision. “They can, but we can’t.”

“It… is a way of describing it.” Vision nods. “As long as we are associated with the United States government, our requirements are held to higher standards than those applied to heroes sanctioned by private funds. And we have more restrictions, seeing as our actions have direct impact on the public opinion of the government.”

“Doesn’t Tony pay for all our stuff?  _Most_ of our stuff, at least?” Sam counters.

“Tony is a benefactor, not an owner.” Natasha explains, her tone dry, her expression cloudy. “Cap’s shield is government property. So are your wings. And Clint’s bow, and my Bites, and pretty much everything in the Compound. Everything that was once under SHIELD’s ownership, basically.”

“That’s why his suit is still private property?” Steve asks, for confirmation.

Natasha nods at him, somberly.

“Wait, so what you’re saying is” Clint interrupts. “If we all just left the Avengers and started again with our own funds, a new team or whatever, none of this would have happened?”

“No.” Natasha says. “He said American citizens. That would leave out me, Wanda, Thor and Vision himself.”

Vision nods carefully. “Precisely, Agent Romanov.”

“Does that mean you can’t  _help people_  if you want to?” Clint looks at her, flabbergasted at the idea.

“No. It means that if I’m not found innocent if I make a mistake while trying to help people, I can be deported. So can Wanda.” Natasha sighs, and turns back to look at Vision sharply. “I don’t even know what is the legal procedure for Thor or for you, in case there was the need to have one. I don’t think there is a precedent, anywhere in the world.”

“There isn’t.” Vision tells her. “The laws that secure my protection are very scarce. In fact, the law didn’t protect  _any_ enhanced individual, of any kind, until very recently. Ever since the Accords have been suggested, various cases of superhuman individuals being legally neglected have been brought to our attention. We hope Mr. Lang’s trial might establish a positive precedent, so we can implement an ethics board and other safeguards, specifically designed to ensure the safety of enhanced and superhuman individuals.”

( _There will have to be safeguards, Tony._ )

God, this is—

Steve feels so—

(Safeguards. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?)

_Christ, Tony._

Steve’s fingers itch with the need to fiddle with something, to stop his hands from reaching for his hair to tug at it.

(Safeguards. There you have it.)

 **_Christ_ , ** _Tony._

 “Why is it so damn hard to  _help people_?” Clint says, aggravated. “No one cared about laws when we were saving the world from the Chitauri.”

“It’s not the _during_  that’s the problem.” Steve says through gritted teeth. “It’s the  _after_.”

He can feel the weight of Natasha’s gaze, her laser sharp focus burning in his face, but he doesn’t raise his eyes to look at her. He can’t bring himself to do so.

A heavy silence falls between them, loaded with questions that have no answers, demands that have to right to be, and they all scream silently in the vacant spaces of the room, like ghosts haunting their thoughts, demons perched at their shoulders to whisper doubt and resentment in their ears.

“After the conflict caused by the Accords…” Vision says, quietly, in that particular cadence that he uses to convey gentle reassurance, but in Steve’s ears, it sounds far too much like  _regret_. “The goal is to transform them into something that an entire team would approve of, before the document would be presented to any individual outside our initiative. It has been said by the UN that they have intentions of transforming the Accords into a base system which other countries can reach for help as they develop their first laws intended for the protection on superhuman individuals, but this won’t happen until the original Accords are  _bulletproof._ I’ve been assured of that.”

 _By whom?_  They all want to ask.

But they all know the answer. So no one says a word.

The silence stretches again, and Vision makes a sound that is almost a cough, very awkward and unnatural, but it does gather their attention for long enough for him to say:

“These are the news I have for you. I’m sorry I cannot give you any more details, but I will remain in contact and keep you all updated on Mr. Lang’s legal process, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

“It would be good.” Natasha confirms. “We’d appreciate it a lot, Vision.”

“Then I shall keep you informed. I’ll return as soon as I can with more news.”

And it’s tone in which he says it that makes Wanda turns to him suddenly, frowning, her tone unsure. “You’re leaving already?”

“I have already fulfilled the purpose of my visit.” Vision explains, but he sounds regretful.

“You don’t have to go immediately.” She argues.

“You can stay around a little longer if you want to, Viz.” Clint interrupts, gently, as not to startle them. “I don’t know if you sleep, but we have a couch if you want to stay for the night or something.”

Vision hesitates for a second, looking around the apartment to give them all a calculating glance, but he lowers his head respectfully and gives it a light shake, in a very polite refusal. “I’m grateful for the offer, Agent Barton, but I should be leaving. There is no need to endanger you with my presence any longer than necessary.”

They all nod, hesitant, and Wanda seems to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from insisting he’d stay, her eyes incredibly sad. In the end, she softly says “I’ll walk you out.”, before gently placing her hand in his arm to guide him outside the rented apartment, walking slowly, as if trying to make the moment last as much as she could.

“Vision.” Sam suddenly calls, and they all look at him, surprised by his sudden outburst, and Vision hesitates when he sees Sam give a dry gulp and stand up from the couch.

“How is Rhodes?” he asks, and they all stop breathing for a moment, caught off guard by the vulnerability in Sam’s words. “Is he alright?”

Vision shifts a bit, a movement  _so human_ it’s almost uncanny— but his voice is gentle and sure when he tells them:

“Yes. Colonel Rhodes is fine. He is in rehabilitation and physical therapy, and with the help of the right aids, it is possible he will be back to walking with no difficulty in a few months.”

They all become speechless.

_Walking._

Rhodes might walk again.

_How—?_

(You didn’t think I would leave my Rhodey in a wheelchair, now, would you, Cap?)

How!?

_Walking. Rhodes would be walking again._

“Thank you, Vision.” Sam exhales, sounding almost out of breath, and he falls back down in the couch, rubbing his hands against his face in desperate relief. “Please… Do me a favor?” he gives a soft sniff, clearing his throat before saying, quietly:

“Tell him I’m sorry, would you?”

Vision acquiesces, silently, and he and Wanda walk out of the apartment almost hand in hand, talking in hushed tones, as the door closes behind them with a soft click. They they’re gone, the sigh Clint gives is so long and deep that he sounds like he just left a battle, tattered and worn-out, exhausted down to his bones. Sam takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down, and Natasha gives him a light pat on the shoulder, supportive, but she doesn’t say a word.

But Steve—

Steve is still frozen in the same spot.

_Rhodes will be walking again._

_Vision is going back._

_He’s leaving._

_He’s leaving._

( _Go after him._ )

“Wait here.” He tells them before he even knows what he’s doing, pushing the counter away to gain momentum to make sure his legs are  _actually moving,_  not just solid blocks of stone as he  _feels_ like they are at this moment, walking in long strides to catch up with Vision and Wanda before he leaves. “I need to check something.”

And before any of them can ask him  _what is it_ , he’s out of the apartment, walking down the hall and descending the stairs as fast as he can.

It’s good that they don’t have the time to ask him what he was doing.

He’s not sure if he would’ve been able to answer them with honesty.

 

(If he were counting, he would’ve counted Vision.)

(Maybe not at first.)

(But later, he will realize he should have.)

(Because it’s  _obvious._ )

 

He catches up to them outside, behind the building, where they’re talking standing in the middle of a small parking lot. Steve suddenly realizes how  _awkward_ it’ll be to interrupt them, but he’s going to do it anyway, because his body is practically moving on its own as he strides in their direction.

“Vision.” He calls out, trying to sound calm, as not to scare them with his presence. Both Wanda and Vision turn their heads quickly when he speaks, concerned, and Steve makes sure his expression is as blank as it can be when he continues. “I would like to speak with you for a moment. Alone, if that’s alright with you, Wanda.”

“Of course.” Wanda agrees, her voice small and confused, but she gives Vision’s hand another squeeze and says, in a very soft tone “ _See you later._ ”, before stepping back and walking away, distant enough that she can’t hear them, but where she could still watch Vision leave when he did.

Vision watches her go for a second, no hint of expression in his face, but his  _eyes_ give away so much emotion Steve feels almost…  _sorry_  for him.

No, not sorry. But he does feel sad for him, for  _them,_ two people that are no more than teens in terms of emotions, with lives to atypical, so unsuited for love and trust, and they still can’t help being drawn to one another. A relationship fated to heartbreak, in some way or another.

He wonders— He wonders what it is that makes Vision and Wanda so attracted to each other. It doesn’t seem to be physical, so it’s not a matter of clinging to an available partner after the thrill of a fight. If it was, Wanda could’ve been attached to anyone, especially Clint, since he’s the one – the human one, at least – who stays with her the most. Not that it would be right, or that Clint would do anything, but Steve has lived in war and he knows these things happen. Emotions get out of control and people do things they wouldn’t do otherwise. But if it were to happen,  _it would’ve already happened_ , because adrenaline doesn’t drive people this long when the only thing they’re feeling is lust.

This is not lust, this is  _longing._ This is that innocent, insecure kind of feeling, the one that makes people’s heart ache for the very first time in their lives and leaves a mark that never fades. They are so different, so awkward, but they feel like they understand each other in their confusion, in their fears and insecurities, and being side by side makes them seem… softer. Vulnerable. Unafraid of being  _afraid._

This is—

(Love, maybe?)

Steve clears his throat, quick and low, a sound that barely lasts a second, but it works; It snaps Vision back to reality, his gaze unfocused and distracted when he turns his eyes back to Steve, looking almost disoriented.

“Captain Rogers.” He blinks, as if he’s slowly coming back to himself, and he remembers what Steve said before Wanda said her goodbye. “Yes, of course. Please, follow me.”

They don’t have anywhere to go, actually, but they do take a few steps aimlessly, putting in some more distance between Wanda and themselves. It’s not really necessary, but Steve is feeling restless,  _jittery again_ , and he’ll take whatever excuse he has to keep himself moving.

“It’s good to see you, Vision.” Steve says cordially, because he doesn’t know how to carry this conversation on. Now that he’s here, his words are failing him. “It’s been a while.”

“Yes, it has.” Visions answers equally polite. “I am glad you are all in good health, Captain. I am sorry if I frightened you today with my presence. I assure it was not my intention to make you feel unsafe.”

 _There._ Steve sees the opening and he takes it.

“That’s what I need to know.” Steve says quickly, stopping in his tracks. “How did you  _find us_ , Vision? Did Tony send you? Can  _Ross_ trace this back to us?”

Vision seems taken aback with his sudden intensity, but he answers as calmly as ever. “Neither Mr. Stark or the Secretary of State know where I am, Captain. There is no need to worry.”

“But how did you do it?”

“The mind stone gives me many abilities that are unique. One of which allows me to perceive certain types of… energies, shall I say, that minds otherwise unaware wouldn’t be able to perceive. I simply… followed the trail.”

Steve is about to ask him what he means, confused by the cryptic answer, when the glance Vision gives behind Steve’s shoulder makes it all click in his head. “You found us through Wanda.”

Vision nods carefully.

“But she hasn’t been fighting. She hasn’t been using her powers.” Steve argues.

“Not on others.” Vision confesses, quietly. “But she has been practicing. She told me so herself.”

“Practicing for what?”

“Simply practicing, Captain.” Vision makes a resigned expression. “I can’t imagine being afraid of your own powers is a very pleasant position to be in. Wanda has no one to help her get familiar with her abilities, so she must explore them and learn to control them on her own. It is only fair. She deserves to feel comfortable with herself.”

Steve can’t say anything against that, so he doesn’t say anything at all. Vision however seems to interpret his silence as a sign of worry, and he assures him again:

“Following the trail of her powers is not something anyone could do, Captain, so I wouldn’t worry about it being a risk. The only reason why it was possible for me is because of the nature of my constitution, and the help of Mr. Stark.”

The mention of Tony’s name makes Steve’s chest ache, unpleasant and uncomfortable, the phantom bird trapped inside his ribcage hitting against the barriers of bone, its wings flapping wildly in frantic despair, afraid of a threat unseen but unable to escape.

“Did Tony—?” he stops, because he isn’t sure how to continue. Did Tony know his coordinates? Did Tony talk about them? What does Tony think about Vision being here?

Does Tony even  _know?_

_Does he know? Does he care?_

(Again? We’ve been over this, darling.)

“Mr. Stark allowed me to use an amplifier to search an area much wider than I was originally capable of. It is the same technology used to trace the signature of the Infinity Stones, so only Mr. Stark has the access and the capacity to reproduce it. That’s all. You are still safe.”

“If you’re using his tech, how can he not know where you are?” Steve breathes.

“I turned off all my transponders and communication devices before I left the United States, as well as my tracking. We decided that it would be safer if no one, not even Mr. Stark, knew where I was headed.”

He feels something like a rock settling deep in his stomach, an unexpected and almost painful weight in his guts, making him feel so very, very  _wrong_. “So he doesn’t know where we are.”

“He doesn’t.”

Steve… Steve stays quiet. Logically, he knows it’s for the best. Having Vision here is already a risk much higher than they should be willing to take, but they will, all because of Wanda. Although the information Vision promised to give them could de useful, they could do without it. But for Wanda’s sake, Steve will allow it, because he is not heartless enough to stop these two people that so  _obviously_ are falling in love with each other from being together, when they are breaking rules to do so. Vision might not see it yet, and Steve is almost willing to bet that he probably doesn’t; but the fact that searching for  _Wanda_ was the way the opted for when trying to find them says a lot about his feelings for her.

Steve has thought, over and over again, that Vision might not be able to fully grasp human emotions yet, and he probably believes that his motivation to break the Accords and meet with them has only to do with Scott’s status in the US; but Steve  _knows_ there is more to it. There would be no need to come in person to deliver this news. With Tony’s tech… With the  _phone_ , all they had to do is make a call, and it would be over.

But he chose to come.

_For Wanda._

And— And that is making all kinds of conflicting feelings bloom in Steve’s heart, feelings that are a mix of fondness and curiosity and concern, fear and hope walking side by side, wishing he could do something to make sure this won’t end in tears for either of them. But he can’t do that. And  _God_ , he wishes he could think about this clearly, he wishes he could say he’s glad for Vision’s presence for what it is and he expects nothing more of it, but that would be a  _lie._

( _Liar._ )

It tells him  _so much,_ the fact that Vision is here and Tony  _doesn’t know._ The fact that Vision is here and he didn’t use the phone. Tony could be hiding the phone -  which is  _fine_ , because it was meant for him, and not for Vision, but… -, or even  _worse,_ he could have  _destroyed_ it and Vision didn’t even  _knew_ it existed. Because why would Tony not mention it, when Vision suggested he wanted to find Wanda? And why would he want to be ignorant of their position, if Vision knew? Tony, who is the most paranoid person Steve has ever met? Steve knows it’s safer, because of Ross, because of the Accords, but when did Tony ever care about those kind of things when it mattered?

(So I don’t think it matters?)

(Is that what you think?)

_No. No, it **has**  to matter._

He just can’t understand why Tony would make the choice to  _ignore_ it.

Vision seems concerned with Steve’s silence, and he makes a motion like he’s going to lay his hand in Steve’s shoulder to console him, but the movement is halted before its even halfway through. Then, he says, his voice as gentle as it was when he whispered to Wanda when they left the apartment room together. “Don’t take this as a sign of indifference, Captain. Mr. Stark is only trying to assure that our meetings occur in the safest way possible. It is by no means a rejection.”

The word  _rejection_ makes him flinch a little, because it’s so uncomfortably specific, the same way the word  _cage_ had sounded from Bucky’s lips amidst the gardens of Wakanda’s palace.

“Although Mr. Stark might not be comfortable admitting it, he still is very concerned for you. All of you.” Vision confesses, and then makes a thoughtful expression. “I believe the common saying is  _absence makes the heart grow fonder._ ”

_His heart._

“Is he ok?” Steve suddenly asks, startling Vision with the intensity of his question. “I noticed he’s using the Arc Reactor again. We saw it in the news this morning.”

Vision makes a sound that almost seems like surprise, like he wasn’t expecting this. “Yes, he is. But it is not the same as it was before, Captain, I can tell you that. His heart has recovered from the extraction of the Reactor and his sternum healed correctly. This reactor is a new version of it, not invasive as the previous one Mr. Stark used to wear, and it is based on a different kind of technology. It allows him to have the armor close at all times, in case of necessity. He says its… for precaution.”

But that’s not enough information for Steve. Steve needs to know if he’s  _ok._

“So it’s not damage?” He presses. “He is not in some kind of health risk, is he?”

Vision gives him the closest thing to a frown he can manage. “You seem concerned, Captain.”

“I have reasons to be.”

(You  _should,_ you traitor.)

“You believe Mr. Stark might be hiding something about his condition?” Vision inquires, and Steve’s expression turns gloomy.

“As far as I know, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Why do you suspect Mr. Stark is concealing some sort of health issue?”

_Because he can’t count on Tony to know best._

(Sounding a bit too prepotent there, Cap.)

(Wanna try that again?)

_He can’t count on him to be honest and admit he’s hurting._

If Steve— if Steve has  _injured_ him, he  _needs_ to know. He’s worried, because he… he held back, in Siberia, but he knows that even when he does, Steve is much stronger than the average man. For God’s sake, Steve once stopped a  _helicopter_ with his bare hands. And he had been trying to stop Tony, not  _hurt him_ , not for real, but— but he remembers the wild look in Tony’s face when the helmet broke, the blood dripping from his nose, the cracks and scratches in the armor, the  _sound_ the glass made when Steve slammed his shield in his Arc Reactor.

He wasn’t trying to kill Tony, and he knows this; and he knows that at that point, Tony’s heart no longer depended in the Arc Reactor to beat. But if there is one thing that Steve only remembered far too late,  _months_ too late, is that Tony’s heart was not the only part of him that was damaged by the presence of the Arc Reactor. The casing used to be seated right into his sternum, probably through the bone, and that means that whatever it is that is holding Tony’s chest together today, it’s artificial, and it might  _break._ The Iron Man armor is so massive that not even his shield could slice through it, but if the impact had caused the armor to slam all of its weight in Tony’s chest, Steve might’ve fractured his ribcage. Which is no less concerning than damaging his heart.

The idea is  _haunting_ him. He heard Tony move after he got up and helped Bucky, he heard him shifting and grunting— but he never looked back. He doesn’t know exactly what happened.

If months later they found a life-threatening injury in his body and  _Steve_ was the cause…

He doesn’t know what he’d do. He can’t even think about it.

He doesn’t want to be the reason why Tony’s heart is in danger again.

(Because you know apologies wouldn’t make this right.)

(I would never forgive you.)

(And you know that.)

“I’m just worried.” Steve says, almost growling the words, hating the way he sounds so desperate. His head is pounding, his  _eyes sting._ “Tony has a tendency to hide things when he doesn’t want to talk about them.”

“I’m afraid I must agree.” Vision says. “But this does seem to be a very specific concern, Captain.”

Steve doesn’t rise to the bait. Vision seems to get the clue.

“I will see if there’s anything important in Mr. Stark’s medical records.” He promises. “But if there’s anything I should know beforehand, Captain, now would be a good time to say so.”

“Anything related to this new Reactor he is using. And  _why_ he’s using it.”

“I’ll bring any information I can find on it for you, the next time I visit.”

“Thank you, Vision.” Steve exhales, relieved, and physically takes a step back, needing to put some distance between himself and the  _agonizing_ idea that was just presented to him on a silver platter.

_Not like he’s been sleeping much lately anyway._

_Just one more nightmare to add to the list._

Vision understands this as sign that their conversation has ended, and he takes a step back himself, putting some distance between them so he can take his leave safely. Lost, Steve watches as he turns and looks at Wanda, his expression fond, and she gives him a shy wave back, brows scrunched up together and eyes sad, but the tiny smile in her face speaks of a promise that this is not a permanent separation, and she’ll be  _waiting_ for him when he comes back.

( _Love._ )

(Love blooming in the battlefield.)

(I guess we really can’t help but make life more difficult for ourselves, can we?)

(We really take any opportunity we can find.)

“Goodbye, Captain Rogers.” Vision says lastly, and so, he turns and gently starts hovering above the ground, higher and higher in a smooth and careful trajectory, and he flies heading west without once looking back.

Steve watches him leave, long after he disappears behind the buildings that obscure the horizon of the city, and he hears Wanda’s careful footsteps approaching him from behind a few moments later. He doesn’t turn, because he feels like she would feel intimidated if he did, as if he’d confront her about her feelings about this sudden visit, so she approaches calmly and stands beside him so they both can stare at the sky and breathe in deep, willing their hearts to slow down before heading back inside and facing the rest of their teammates.

“Did he say when he would be back?” Steve asks her, quietly, so soft it almost sounds like a whisper.

“He didn’t.” Wanda says, and her accent sounds stronger when she’s feeling so emotional. “But he said it would be soon.”

Steve risks taking a glance at her, and she looks back, seeming as lost as he feels. He huffs, trying to shake away the anxious feeling running through his veins, and he lays a hand on her shoulder, because he doesn’t know how else to comfort her.

“So I guess we wait.”

 

(He counts Wanda.)

(Because she’s the first one to bring it up.)

(To his face, at least.)

 

Hours later, Wanda will ask him:

“Are you staying?”, and Steve will tell her  _yes._

He will also tell her, trying to give her some amount of comfort: “We thought it would be better if we did. The safest way for Vision to find us is through you, so it’s better that we don’t be separated.”, and he hopes the suggestion that Vision will be actively looking for  _her_ , out of all of them, is something that brings her some peace of mind, even if it’s just a little. “We couldn’t find a place to stay in this building, so we’ll be here for tonight, and tomorrow we’ll look for a new hotel that’s closer.”

And Wanda agrees, looking at the floor absentmindedly, her thoughts far away from the apartment, probably still in that parking lot earlier that day. Steve wants to say something to make her feel a little better, but can’t seem to find the right words, no matter how hard he tries.

The sun has already gone down and soon enough they’ll have to sleep. Their hotel is on the other side of town, too far away from the tiny apartment Clint rented for himself and Wanda, so they decided to split up for the night. Steve decided to stay, taking up Clint’s offer for the couch – despite him knowing he won’t sleep at all, his body thrumming with nerves, a low hum of worry sizzling under his skin, making the hairs in his arms stand like static –, while Nat and Sam spend one more night at the hotel and gather their belongings in the next morning. As soon as they can they will move closer, and decide what’s the best course of action based on the final outcome of Scott’s trial.

Steve wasn’t actively trying to stay alone with Wanda, but Clint stepped out for some extra groceries and the opportunity just presented itself. He has to admit he has a soft spot for her, but they don’t interact much, besides from the hours they spend training together at the Compound and that one, very painful conversation they had after the incident in Nigeria.

Steve is a leader, but most of his strength derives from a place that allows very little time for vulnerability, and  _vulnerable_ is the first word that comes to mind when he thinks about Wanda’s feelings. She is strong, probably stronger than Banner if given the chance to prove herself, but the world has taken a toll on her, the same way it would have taken on him if he’d allowed it, when he was small. He feels, deep in inside him, the need to make sure she’ll be on the right path to make herself stronger. Because they need her. In a world like theirs, they all need their strength, but Steve doesn’t know how to build strength from softness, because he never had to.

He built himself up from other types of foundations. This, to him, is disarmingly new.

Wanda is making something in the kitchen when he decides to take a chance. He approaches silently, unwilling to disrupt this fragile, paper-thin peace they have settled between them in this silent apartment, knowing Wanda can see him stepping closer even though her head is tilted down while she chops onions on the cutting board.

“I didn’t know you could cook.” He says lightly, hoping the amicability he tries to inject in his voice is noticeable.

“It’s a good skill to have.” Wanda says, a tiny smile on her face. “It reminds me of simpler times.”

Steve immediately thinks she’s talking about Vision, and their time together at the Compound— but then, he remembers she is an orphan, has been for over a decade, and he wonders if this actually has to do with her  _brother_ , and how this must feel for her now, knowing such a simple pleasure has been tarnished twice in her life, by loss and by separation, stealing all the flavor from her tongue.

He takes a deep breath, suddenly overwhelmed. He’s not sure how he should feel about this.

“Wanda, I don’t want to press you for an answer.” Steve says in complete honesty, hoping this affirmation will ease the blow of his next question. “But I have to ask. Are you  _ok_?”

Wanda stops for a second, raising her eyes to meet his. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Clint told me you and Vision talked alone for over an hour before we got here. And you were crying when you left the room.” Steve lowers his head, trying to make his gaze level hers, so she can see he’s not asking this to hurt her. He’s just concerned. He just wants to know the truth. “Did he say anything to you?”

“No.” Wanda replies, her voice raising a pitch at the end. “Viz would never do anything to hurt me. We just talked.”

 _About what?_ Is what he wants to ask.

But how insensitive would it be, if he did?

“Alright.” He backtracks. “I trust you.”

But it’s a lie, and he knows it shows. No, not a lie, Steve trusts Wanda, but he doesn’t like being left in the dark when things can affect the team dynamics. It’s probably not fair to compare the two, but he can’t help but remember Clint, who never told them he had a family until he had no other choice, or Tony—

Tony, who hid the fact he used the scepter behind their back. It only goes to show that keeping secrets between is never the best course of action. They can’t support each other if they are hiding the game.

He can’t lead soldiers who have missions of their own.

( _We are not soldiers!_ )

_No. Not now, Tony, please._

_Please._

But this isn’t about him, is it? It’s not even about the team. It’s about Wanda and Vision, and this weird, complex relationship they have going on, and nothing else. Steve doesn’t get the right to prod her about this.  

“We talked about the fight.” Wanda confesses, sounding ashamed. “I had to apologize.”

This makes all kinds of alarms blare in Steve’s mind, his protectiveness building itself up like a fortress, the years-old bitterness making his voice harsh and stern.

“Wanda…”

“I  _had_ to apologize.” Wanda insists, interrupting him. “I hurt him, and it wasn’t fair.”

“We all hurt each other.” Steve justifies, sorrowful.

“And how does that make it right?” Wanda exclaims loudly. “We hurt each other and that’s fine? It’s not. We’re  _friends._ ”

“We did what we had to do, Wanda.” Steve says forcefully, abhorring the direction this is going.  _Not again, not again._ He can’t deal with this problem again.

_First Bucky, now Wanda._

Why can’t people stop trying to crucify them for things they have no control of?

“You were only protecting yourself.” Steve assures her.

“He wasn’t trying to  _hurt_  me.” Wanda replies. “When Clint came to take me from the Compound, Vision tried to stop us. And  _we_  hurt him. Clint shocked him, and I put him through twenty floors and left him there. I used my powers on the Mind Stone, I  _controlled_ him, and I was wrong.”

(She did  _what_?!)

Steve never heard of this before. Clint told them they had stopped Vision from following them…

(And he never told you how.)

(I guess this is it.)

(We really can’t help but keeping secrets, can we?)

(Half-truths, lies by omission.)

(It’s in our  _blood._ )

“Vision was never afraid of me.” Wanda whispers, leaving the knife on top of the board, holding herself on the counter to keep herself grounded. “I didn’t want to give him a reason to be.”

“And was he?” Steve inquires. “Afraid of you?”

“No.” Wanda admits, her voice cracking at the end, her English awkward around the heavy notes of her accent laced with grief. “But that’s not an excuse to not apologize.”

Steve… Steve can’t really fault her for her logic. He doesn’t like that Wanda is blaming herself for acting as her circumstances forced her to act, like she’s  _believing_ all the horrible things the media says about her, but this is not only about that, but about her feelings for her teammate. How can- How can Steve tell her this is not right, when he doesn’t know where Wanda and Vision stand? He can’t say she’s wrong because he doesn’t want to interfere in their relationship.

He doesn’t want to be the reason Wanda might lose the chance of getting the person she has feelings for back. Whether she knows what kind of feelings those are or not.

This is not Steve’s fight.

And for  _probably_ the first time in his life, he doesn’t want to make it so.

“I am tired of running away.” She confesses, when she realizes Steve won’t say anything to rebuke her argument. “Because no matter how hard I try, I can’t escape myself. I have to deal with it. And the things I did.”

“Wanda…” Steve tries to object, but the words get caught in his throat and choke him, his mind going to fast for him to let his mouth run free while his thoughts scatter all over the place.

_I’ll deal with it._

(Isn’t that what you said to Bucky?)

(After everything?)

( _I’ll deal with it._ )

“You don’t have to deal with your fears alone.” Its what he settles for, voice as kind as he can.

But it has the opposite effect, because Wanda’s eyes shoot up and flash red for a fraction of a second, almost piercing through him with their intensity. “Why not? You did.”

“I always had the team backing me up.” Steve says, but even to himself, it sounds like a hollow excuse.

“Yeah?” Wanda asks mockingly, suddenly sounding like she’s on the verge of tears. “Did you tell anyone about what I made you see? Your greatest fear? Did you ever let anyone help you with the burden that you can’t control?”

Steve’s mouth immediately clicks shut, the tick in his jaw painful, pressure aching all the way up from his teeth to his temples, keeping inside the words that are too insensitive and too aggressive for him to let out.

These days, Steve doesn’t have much strength to fight against his teammates. He doesn’t want to  _do it_ anymore, he’s tired of snapping at them and starting screaming matches with the people he’s supposed to trust. It’s a toss between keeping quiet and swallowing all his bitter thoughts and unkind words back down, feel them scorching in his belly every time he keeps quiet in favor of  _peace_ , or letting himself be numb and never let the rage reach a point where it gets too much, keep it subsided, keep it hidden like so many other things he likes to pretend he  _doesn’t have_  to hide.

(Tell her the truth.)

_I—_

(The  _truth,_ Rogers.)

Wanda is watching him carefully, bracing herself for a fight if so much of a hint of a lie passes through Steve’s lips, as if she  _knows_ the truth, the entire truth, no secrets, no half-excuses. Under her gaze, Steve can’t help but wonder, in a tiny place at the back of his head, the dark corner that keeps growing and growing every day, threatening to swallow him whole, what exactly has happened to Wanda during the time they’ve been apart. Why Steve looks at her and he can’t see that  _openness,_ that child-like  _fragility_ , as if it has been encased in an armor, a sturdiness that only comes with experience and it’s forged  _under pressure._

What exactly has the silence done to her, the lack of a purpose, the lack of a mission, and how had it affected her and transformed her into the person who’s standing in front of Steve today. The person who thinks herself guilty and thinks she should shoulder it, despite him telling her she doesn’t have to. The person who is regretting deeply her past, and won’t let him tell her otherwise.

He hates that he recognizes what this is. He’s not a hypocrite to say he doesn’t see the mirror image of himself in her.

And then he has to admit.

_She’s not a kid anymore._

(She hasn’t been for a while.)

(It only took you all this time to notice it.)

Steve takes in a deep breath, averting his gaze to escape the feeling of being so  _transparent_ in front of Wanda’s unyielding stare, and he finally says:

“No.”, and the taste of the truth feels weird in his tongue, like liquor, the tingling of it spreading through his body like a hit of a very powerful drug. “I didn’t think it was important. It didn’t hurt me.”

“It  _did._ ” Wanda argues back. “You’re just so used to pain you don’t think you should care about it anymore.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. Wanda exhales hesitantly, and after a moment of consideration, picks up the knife and resumes chopping.

“I know what that’s like. To think you deserve it.” She says in a meek voice. “To think you can’t trust anyone but yourself. When I was younger, I only had Pietro. When he was gone, all I could think of was  _how can I ever trust anyone again_?”

_He felt the same, when he lost Bucky._

_And then he lost everything._

_Over and over again._

Steve nods in agreement.

He knows what it feels like.

“But I want to trust you. All of you. And I want you to trust me.”

“We trust you.” Steve assures, but Wanda shakes her head.

“You don’t. If Stark had trusted me, he wouldn’t have tried to keep me locked in the Compound.”

And suddenly, the instinct to argue back and tell her this is Tony’s fault, not hers, rises inside him and engulfs him like a tidal wave, and there is a moment, a second where he freezes in time, where the world stops spinning, and he wonders if saying the words will actually make any difference. If it’ll only hurt them more, if he says it.

But Wanda beats him to the punch with a single whisper.

“I’m sorry.” Wanda pleads, before Steve can say a single word. “I’m sorry for what I did to you, in Johannesburg. I will never do that again.”

Steve almost takes a step back, feeling like he suddenly lost his footing.

“It’s ok, Wanda.” Steve almost stutters, and he tries for a joking tone to mask how off guard she caught him with her apology. “I can’t really blame you for using your powers on us when we we’re fighting in opposite sides, can I?”

“No. But now we’re on the same team, and I can’t pretend I didn’t try to hurt you once.”

“It’s all water under the bridge.” Steve insists. “You didn’t hurt us.”

“That’s not  _true._ ” Wanda counters. “It was wrong, and unless I get it under control, I will keep doing it. And somebody’s going to get hurt.  _Again._ ”

_Again?_

Who has gotten hurt?

(Who hasn’t?)

Steve can’t take this happening again. He can’t— He can’t watch while the people he cares about tear themselves apart over guilt they shouldn’t feel, beating themselves up, carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders silently, until they’re crushed under the pressure. They can’t be dwelling on this. How can they heal, how can they move forward if the past is dragging them back?

How can he make this right?

_If no one will believe him?_

“You won’t hurt anybody, Wanda.” He tries, one last time, hoping the desperation in his voice will be enough to cut through the gigantic shield Wanda has raised around herself.

But it doesn’t.

“Not anymore.” She says, resolute. “I promise.”

And Steve doesn’t know how to tell her she has done nothing wrong.

_He’s not sure if he should._

So he doesn’t say anything.

 

(Should he count Clint twice?)

(Should he count at all?)

(He doesn’t know.)

(What exactly is he counting?)

(The number of times someone makes him question himself?)

(Or the number of times he needs to listen, before he  _gets it_?)

 

At the first chance he gets, he corners Clint.

“How long has she been like this?”

“What?” Clint splutters, almost choking around the last gulp of water he was taking, laying his glass on top of the kitchen counter before heading to bed.

It’s the middle of the night and Wanda has already left for bed hours ago, and Steve knows she’s fast asleep. This will probably be the only chance he has to find Clint alone for a very long time, and he has to take it. He can't ignore this any further.

“ _Wanda._ ” Steve presses, his voice sour and his posture rigid, contained poorly in his attempt to keep quiet as to not disturb Wanda in the next room. “Clint. How long has she been thinking this is somehow her fault?”

Clint has a long moment of confusion right before his eyes, his expression scrunching up and his brows furrowing almost cartoonishly, until realization dawns on him and he sobers up almost at the speed of light, his whole posture shifting from relaxed to alert.

“Steve, it’s not like that.” He mutters.

“You’re letting her feel  _guilty_ for this mess?”

“Woah, there. Nice to know you think so highly of me, Cap.” Clint scoffs, pushing the glass away and turning his body to face Steve, pushing out his chest and making himself even larger, an unconscious gesture to demonstrate he is not cowering before Steve’s piercing glare. “Of  _course_ not. I talked to her. Over and over again. It’s not easy for her to accept it, you know? The media talked about her as if she was a monster, and that got into her head. But she has been getting better, I promise, but she has to come to terms with it on her own.”

“So you just don’t convince her otherwise?” Steve accuses.

“I’m not— Ok, listen. This kind of stuff doesn’t magically disappear, alright? The kid’s  _traumatized._ I can’t just sit there and tell her everything is fine, she won’t  _believe me_ like that. This takes time. And I’m not going to  _lie_ to her and say everything us going to magically solve itself, that doesn’t help and I would never do that. This girl is like a daughter to me. I wouldn’t lie to my kids, so I wouldn’t lie to her either.”

Steve grinds his teeth together, before taking adeep breath and continuing, not exactly succeeding at keeping himself calm. “It’s not a  _lie,_ Clint. This  _isn’t_ her fault. The  _Accords_ aren’t her fault.”

“I have no idea how I’m gonna explain this to you in a way you’ll listen” Clint rubs his eyes, exhausted, and Steve feels honestly  _offended_ , because he’s trying to be civil, here. He’s done this before, this fight that always fall into deaf ears, because people seem determined to make it so much complicated than it actually is. To him, it’s very black and white. It’s very straight forward.

 _It’s not their fault_ , and that is that. The technicalities don’t matter. And they will never matter, if all they do is to make the victims feel guilty about their circumstances.

But Clint, just like everyone else, is not in the same wave-length as Steve. He sighs, releasing tension from his shoulders, as if he knows that if he doesn’t back down, Steve won’t listen to him. “Lets get one thing straight: I  _don’t think_ this is her fault. It’s not. Sooner or later, they would’ve come up with something to try and slow us down. People just don’t like people who are stronger than them running free. She made an accident in Nigeria and that’s alright, people cause accidents all the time, even people who are trying to help, so the Accords exiting is not her fault.”

_Then why are you arguing with me on this?_

(Don’t you think it’s weird that everyone is disagreeing with you about something?)

(Doesn’t it seem strange?)

(What are you doing, Steve?)

(What are you doing wrong?)

“But she’s terrified, Cap.” Clint explains, before Steve has the chance to answer. He steps closer, lowering the tone of his voice even more, to be completely sure Wanda won’t hear his next words. “She doesn’t understand her powers and she has to do something about it. She’s been getting stronger. And I honestly can’t blame her for being scared, because I’d be scared shitless too.”

Steve immediately feels his rising rage recede, a cold feeling of sorrow and sadness settling in his chest, the idea of Wanda being scared triggering a very base reaction inside him, the deep-seated instinct to protect those he considers to be his friends.

He thinks about Wanda and the way she looked at Vision, how  _glad_ she looked that he still treated her with kindness after such a violent goodbye, and he realizes he can’t really argue against that. She probably was really scared. Steve can’t fault her for feeling that way. They all feels scared sometimes, Wanda is just not as skilled as the rest of them in controlling it.

“Vision said she has been practicing.” He comments quietly, his tone losing all of its aggressive inflection, his gaze lowering in a pitiful attempt to show he’s feeling ridiculous for his brief loss of control.

“Yeah.” Clint makes a pause, his gaze calculating. “She thought it would be necessary after she  _invaded my dreams_ while she was having a nightmare five months ago.”

Steve’s head darts back up, his eyes wide and mind reeling. “ _What_?”

Clint nods, expression dead serious.

“It scared the shit out of me. I almost had a panic attack, I thought it was Loki or something, I almost hurt her when she tried to wake me up. She said I  _screamed._ ”

Steve feels lightheaded. He doesn’t know how to react to this. “I didn’t know.”

“Me neither. How could I know that would happen?” Clint shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. “I was the only one she didn’t catch in Johannesburg, remember that? And I lucked out, because she told me she went through every single one of you and messed with your heads. That’s… That’s not ok, Cap. I know we try to be supportive and she’s no more than a kid who had a miserable life… hell,  _I_ was the one who told her to forget all of that. But  _she got into my head and I almost killed her._ I haven’t done that kind of thing ever since Loki messed with my head. I can only  _imagine_ what she did to Bruce, to make him hulk out like that.”

( _What about Bruce?_ )

_Not again. Not again._

(It all comes back, Cap.)

(We’re walking in circles.)

(None of this is new.)

(We’ve been stuck in this loop for  _years_.)

“I always thought it had more to do with the Hulk than with Bruce. But the way it  _felt._ It felt… way too real. I wasn’t ready for that.” Clint exhales harshly, rubbing his forehead for a moment before turning back to Steve, a determined look in his eyes. “I don’t want to be an asshole, ok? I’m not trying to. I think she’s a good kid and I want to help her. But when that happened… Steve, I can’t pretend this isn’t some serious shit. I guess I didn’t know, or I was just… I didn’t think it was  _that_ serious. You seemed to think it was fine too, and Nat never told me otherwise. And Bruce and Tony… I never asked, so I don’t know. Bruce  _disappeared,_ so I guess that answers that question. God knows what Tony thought, no one knows what goes on in that guy’s head.”

“Wanda didn’t get to Tony either.” Steve mentions, but at this point, is just to show Clint he’s listening, and not to actually refute what he’s saying.

“What?” Clink blinks. “What do you mean? She did. She said she did.”

Steve shakes his head. “No, she didn’t. Tony helped us stop Bruce in Johannesburg. He wasn’t at the site where Wanda got to us.”

“No, before that.” Clint says, as if Steve had just grown two heads. “In the HYDRA base where they lived. When Tony got the scepter. She said he was the first one she got to.”

_What!?_

Oh, Christ, how many times will the ground simply give away from under him, leaving him stranded in the middle of nowhere, stealing all the breath from his lungs? How many times he will be send back reeling, his minds spinning with new revelations and unexpected turns, how many times will he be pushed into a corner and be forced to challenge his thoughts with so many other realities that simply never fit with his own?

How many other things have passed him by and he didn’t notice? How many other secrets were buried between them, a graveyard of unspoken words, laid before them as a proof of their fragile bonds? He didn’t even know. So many graves filled with the confessions his teammates never felt the need to share with him, hiding under layers of dirt and grief to keep themselves disguised, trying not to stir too much so they won’t be seen. Hiding in plain sight, under watery eyes and choked up jokes. Steve has been digging graves for his own secrets for so long, so effectively, that he completely lost the notion of how  _huge_ this graveyard is.

How big are his teammates graveyards? How big are their secrets?

And how will they haunt him when they come into the light, casting shadows over his own, drowning him in darkness?

“What? They were  _inside_ the base that day?” Steve exclaims, the facts not adding up inside his head. “What do you mean? Wanda got to Tony  _there_?”

Clint leans back, looking regretful, but not surprised. “I’m guessing he never told you that.”

“He never told  _any of us._ ” Steve admits. “What  _happened_?”

“I don’t know, she didn’t give me any details.”

“Then what  _did_  she say?”

Clint fiddles with a toothpick that is within his reach, trying to keep his hands busy, but he just gives up after a few seconds and says “We were talking, and she was nervous, it took me a while to understand a word she was saying. She said something like how she had finally gotten to all of us and with Ultron and the Accords, she should’ve expected it…”

“ _Ultron_?” Steve unthinkingly interrupts. “That wasn’t her fault  _either._ She wasn’t even there.”

“I told her the same thing.” Clint explains, exasperatedly. “And she said:  _but I put the idea in Stark’s head._ ”

“No.” Steve says firmly. “Tony had the Ultron project created long before Wanda got to us. Bruce told us so. He had it planned for years, she can’t take the blame for that. If Tony saw something and decided to go ahead and create Ultron, that is not Wanda’s fault.”

Clint stays suspiciously quiet.

“What, you don’t think so?” Steve huffs, insulted.

“I just don’t know if it’s that simple.” Clint sighs. “I want to believe Wanda wasn’t wrong. I do. I like the kid, and if that makes me an unreliable source than so be it, I never hid the fact that I like to cheer for the underdog. Ask Nat. I was SHIELD’s worst nightmare, recruiting strays lefts and right just because I thought they could be good people if they had the chance.”

_And why is that not enough?_

_She is on our side._

_It’s over. Ultron is over._

_Why is that not enough?_

“But…” Clint hesitates. “Loki made me do things I never thought I’d do. I hurt people. I hurt  _Nat._ And I still hate myself for it. I can understand why she would feel bad about the things she did too.”

“Do you  _want_ her to feel bad?” Steve asks, incredulous, incapable of accepting the idea that Clint would be so cruel to the girl he so fiercely defended.

“I’m not glad Wanda feels bad.” Clint argues. “I don’t want her to suffer. But if she wants to practice because she thinks she needs to be stronger, I’ll let her. If she wants to make up for the things she did when she was on Ultron’s side, I’ll  _let her._ Cap, how is that any different than what happened to  _Nat_? Do you think Nat would’ve let me baby her and act like she didn’t know any better when she switched sides and decided to become one of the good guys? She would’ve mounted my head on the wall, like a bear or something.”

“That’s because Natasha was an  _assassin._ ” Steve jabs back, and he immediately regrets it. That is not fair to Natasha at all. She might be stern and strong, but Natasha isn’t heartless, and if she’d fight Clint if he coddled her, it wouldn’t be because she’s trained to do so; it would be because she would feel  _offended_ if she were coddled. She was not a child.

(And neither is Wanda, Cap.)

“And Wanda tried to get us all killed with the help of a murder-bot.” Clint reminds him, not unkindly, but not lightly either. “She’s not helpless, Cap. The way her powers are growing is the proof of that. So  _let her be._ We’ve done what we can, we’ll support her, we’ll help her if she need to. But if she says she needs to try something on her own,  _let her._ We’re not helping her if we’re getting in her way.”

“And how is making her feel guilty about Johannesburg is going to help her?” Steve asks pointedly.

“Guilt makes us do amazing things, Cap.” Clint says cryptically, giving him a wry smile before returning to seriousness. “I trust Wanda to learn that guilt is not something that should hold her back, it should push her forward. I trust her to be strong and get over this, because she  _wants to_ , not because I told her to.”

And it’s something in Clint’s voice, or the way he looks down at the counter with a long, lost look— something inside Steve trembles and quivers, it  _mourns_ for the so very obvious sorrow Clint feels at the idea of letting a person he cares for to feel any kind of suffering. In this moment, as in many others, Steve wonders how exactly Clint sees Wanda in his mind, a strange mix of as a friend, a protégé, a daughter; especially when he is so far away from his family, from his wife, from his own  _children._ A part of Steve, the part that is ugly and insensitive, the one he tries to hard to keep controlled because everyone expects him to be so perfectly empathetic, wonders if Clint  _regrets_ it.  If he feels like… Like he traded one life for another. His children, for another.

(Or maybe that’s just you.)

(Just you, who threw it all away for one single man.)

_Not just him._

_And he made a choice._

They all made a choice.

(It’s not a choice if it demands sacrifice.)

(If it does)

(It’s just  _sacrifice._ )

“Cap.” Clint says, demurely. “I know it’s hard to do it. Trust me, I do. I’ve got three kids, they’re all goddamn menaces, and I worry about them every single day. I always worry if I’m doing enough, if—”

He pauses. Clears his throat. Tries again.

“If I should be there even when they tell me they don’t want me to. Sometimes you should. But sometimes you shouldn’t. There are some things kids should learn on their own. And as much as I love that kid, she’s not a  _kid,_ kid, she’s an adult. She’s strong enough.” Clint gives a firm, decisive nod. “She’ll get through it.”

And Steve wants to believe that too. Dear God, he  _wants to_ , but it is so beyond him. It is so alien, the idea that he should just sit back and watch while Wanda, while  _anyone_ would allow themselves to be weighed down by their burdens, even if it is to learn from them. Steve is not one for reflection. It breeds too much pain, too much sorrow, too much  _regret_ , and what good are those when the time to make things right comes? The only way to fix things is by  _taking action_. There is no other way.

And pain… pain just pulls you back. Doubt pulls you back.

_He can’t let it grow._

_He can’t let it win._

(Because even though you sometimes make yourself hurt on purpose)

(If there’s one thing you never allow yourself to feel)

(Is this.)

“You’re right.” Steve mutters, and it is a strain for him to do so. It feels  _dangerous_ , it feels like treading on thin ice, the verge of opening a door that holds something much too strong for him to fight off. “Yes, I know, you’re right. I just… I remember her watching the news and being completely devastated about the things they said about her. I don’t want her to go through that again.”

“I know. But if she decides she wants to face the crowd, there’s nothing we can do about that.” Clint says resignedly.

Steve rubs his eyes, trying to hide his face under his hand, even if for just a second, trying to keep his composure.

“I don’t want her to feel like the Accords exist because of her. They are in all of us, not on her.” He confesses, feeling so uncomfortable he takes a step back and turns his body a little to the side, as if that would make him feel less vulnerable. But it  _doesn’t._ It’s too fucking late for that. “We destroyed New York, Sokovia, and everywhere else. Nigeria was an accident— an accident I should have prevented. I wasn’t quick enough. She shouldn’t pay for that. It was my mistake.”

Somehow,  _that_ is what makes Clint react, his expression going sour and his posture indignant. “Ok, hold on, we have to talk about that too.” He raises his hand and points a finger at Steve, as if he’s indicating something. “Stop  _that_ , Cap. When you say stuff like that? Like  _you should have been the one to get the bomb_ , as if she wasn’t capable of handling it herself? That shit has to stop too. You might a Super Soldier, but you’re not a god, alright?  _Thor_ is a god and he messes up too. Why would you think it’s your job to do everything by yourself?”

Steve feels taken aback.

He doesn’t know why Clint is reacting so badly to this.

“Because I’m the  _leader_ , and I shouldn’t have let her be put in that position.” He says, as if it’s obvious. Because it is. He’s the leader, it’s his responsibility to deal with these kind of threats, not  _Wanda’s_. Crossbones was  _Steve’s_  mission.

“You didn’t, Crossbones did.” Clint rebukes. “And you might be a good leader, Cap, but you’re not omnipotent. Sometimes, we’re going to be pushed into a bad position. We all have to be prepared to deal with it. That includes Wanda.”

“It does, but that doesn’t mean it was her fault! People act as if she did something unforgivable. As if she’d done it on purpose.” Steve argues, exhaustedly, tired of repeating it over and over again, only to have his words ignored and his beliefs treated as irrational. “It was an accident.”

“It was.” Clint agrees mournfully. “But she did do it, Steve. It happened. People are going to get mad. People will want revenge. It’s just what happens in this kind of job. There’s a lot of consequences when we get things wrong.”

_But she did do it._

( _But I did it._ )

(Sounds familiar?)

No, that’s not the same. It’s not the same at all. He won’t go down this path, he won’t do it. He won’t play this game, Tony. Not anymore.

_Stop it._

(C’mon, Cap.)

_No._

_That’s enough._

Steve startles when he suddenly feels a hand on his shoulder, heavy and warm, and realizes he was so out of it he didn’t even notice Clint walking around the counter to stand by his side. He wonders, for a second, if Clint can see the rising  _despair_ that is slowly crawling its way up Steve’s spine, the crack on the door of his mind, the door that only holds promises of pain behind it, and Steve  _can’t fucking close it_  no matter how hard he tries. He wonders if Clint knows that he just punched another crack into Steve’s armor, right beside Natasha’s, beside Scott’s and T’Challa’s and Wanda’s and  _Bucky’s_ , a tapestry of fractures, like the ones he probably punched into Tony’s chest.

He wonders—

_Why is this happening?_

_Why?_

**_Why?_ **

(You know why, darling.)

(Give me a break, here.)

(You know.)

(Why don’t you do us both a favor and just  _admit_ it?)

“Let her deal with her choices in her own way, Cap.” Clint tells him, gently, before averting his gaze. “We all made our choices. Now… Now he gotta deal with them.”

And after a pat, his hand falls away, giving Steve one last look before turning on his heels and heading to his room, leaving Steve to his worst two enemies; the enemies that might, someday, be his downfall, even when the worst kind of villains couldn’t finish the job.

In the end, Steve is going to be the one who destroys himself.

Him. And time, and silence.

 

The couch is way too small for him to sleep in it.

He knew. Clint knew it too, and he had insisted that Steve should take the bed, and he would have the couch, it would be fine for just one night. But Steve declined. He declined because he wouldn’t take away Clint’s comfort when he knew he wouldn’t sleep, his body too high strung with the anxiety he awakened during the day, his mind way too busy, his thoughts way too loud for him to be allowed the blissful quiet of unconsciousness, even for a few minutes. Like a soldier, like this character of the  _unbending protector_ he always wears like a second skin, he will stand guard while his teammates sleep; and while he does it, he will try to hold himself steady, no matter how dark the shadows in the corners seem to be, no matter how many times he looks over his shoulder to make sure the sensation of being watched is still just this, a  _sensation_ , not a fact.

It’s hard, to run away from prying eyes. Especially when those eyes aren’t watching him from outside, but from inside, and they come together with a voice – a voice that is too familiar, too cruel, and too loud for him to ignore.

This is… This is one of those nights. The nights where Steve’s hands itch for the need to grip something as hard as he can, making sure he’ll keep himself grounded, for his thoughts seem to go so far away he can’t be sure his body isn’t being dragged along with them. The nights he regrets he can’t forget, because now he has to live with what he has done and with what he has  _heard,_ with the inescapable feeling that all his teammates are changing around him and he can’t stop it, that all of them… all of them are suffering, in their own way, silently and bitterly, like they are all rotting from the inside, being swallowed whole by their doubts and their regrets, and he can’t  _stop it._

He doesn’t know how, because he’s doing exactly the same.

And he’s losing.

_He’s always losing._

He remembers telling this to Tony, once. Right after Ultron. Right after they learned that Clint had been hiding his family from them for years, even though Steve had considered them a pretty close-knit team. He said  _sometimes, my teammates don’t tell me things_ , and Steve will admit it, even if only to himself, that he’d said it to  _hurt._

He does that sometimes, it’s like the impulse is stronger than him. It’s not because he wants to punish his friends, but Steve is a man who has learned many ways to goad people into fights when he was smaller, because he liked to make bullies lose their calm, he liked to see them stripped down to their bare core and showing the world what they truly are.  _Villains._ People who prey on other’s weaknesses, and Steve would provoke them with a smile, with a sneer and an arched brow, because nothing,  _nothing_ drives a predator into a frenzy like a  _challenge_ does _._

But…

That time, he didn’t have to do it. Tony wasn’t a bully. He just did it, because… Because he was so on edge, so rattled with the idea that the next day might be their last day, and not only one, but  _two_  of his friends had just revealed themselves to be…

(Call me a liar, Rogers.)

(I dare you.)

He  _was,_ ok? In that moment, Tony was a liar. He lied about Ultron, about his intentions with the scepter, and he had put them all in danger. And Clint, the last person Steve had expected to hide such a big secret, always the first one to jump at the opportunity to fight as a team… hiding such an important part of his life from them. Steve trues to tell himself he understands, he truly does, but that doesn’t stop the irrational feeling of betrayal that consumes his heart.

He didn’t have to do it. But he did it. He threw the accusation in Tony’s face, knowing fully well that his fake tone of resigned acceptance would never fool him, only make him feel worse for  _disappointing_ Steve. Because that’s what Steve does. Whenever he’s disappointed, he lets people know. He doesn’t pull his punches, he isn’t so understanding. Maybe that’s what he thought he had to do, as a leader. He had to show his teammates what he thought was wrong, and push them into fixing it. Maybe not. Maybe that was just him, being cruel without thinking, demanding far too much from people when he had no right.

He doesn’t know what the true answer to this is. He just doesn’t. He thought he did, but now he’s not sure, because what good did acting like this do?  _None._ Nothing, ever. His teammates keep hiding things from him and he keeps getting disappointed, they keep disappointing each other, and they fight and they disagree, they hurt each other by assuming they know best, and in the end, they only drift further and further apart. It never  _ends._

All this omission, this lying and this fighting… one day, it’s going to destroy them.

It’s because of things like this that the Accords exist.

Because of that, Tony and Wanda—

_Wanda._

Dear God,  _Wanda._ Steve had no idea. How could he? How could he have seen this coming, how could he have known? He couldn’t have. Tony had never told them. Yet another thing he’d hidden.

(Don’t you  _dare,_ Rogers.)

Another thing he hadn’t trusted them to know.

(Don’t you _dare,_ you _hypocrite. Don’t you dare!_ )

(Who was telling Wanda their own pain didn’t matter a few hours ago!?)

(Who was acting like they have to be strong and hold the entire world on their shoulders alone!?)

(This is a fucking  _joke,_ Rogers.)

_But after all that happened, how could he?_

How could Tony trust them with this? Would Steve have even listened? He wants to believe he would’ve, but he doesn’t actually want to say it. He doesn’t want to be wrong. He doesn’t to be disappointed with himself, he doesn’t want to be disappointed anymore.

He doesn’t want to think about secrets.

(Too  _fucking_ bad.)

He doesn’t want to go back to that time, to that… to that cold night, to the memories of white and red, snow and blood, and  _metal hitting metal_ , over and over, rhythmically, incessantly; the music of  _destruction_ , the final nail in the coffin before it is left to rest forever, in one of the many holes in Steve’s graveyard of unspoken words.

He doesn’t want to dig it back up.

It will haunt him.

It will haunt him forever.

(Deal with your choices, Captain.)

But that was not a choice.

He had  _no choice._ Not in the bunker.

(Because in the bunker, it was already too late.)

Steve reaches into his pocket, his fingers trembling, his eyes closed, and when his hand closes around the burner phone, it is  _cold_ against his palm, heavy, and solid, and  _silent._

 _Silence_  will be the end of him.

Because silence is what he chose.

(When you could’ve chosen otherwise.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Oh, Steve. Honey, why are you like this?~~
> 
> There you have it, friends. Do you see where I'm going with this? I feel like this needs to be adressed, despite the MCU's obvious reluctance to face head on the problem they've created (or really, problems, in plural), but we're not playing their game here. It's a bit hard to keep track, but if you decide to watch the movies again very closely, you will notice that there is a lot that we know, but the Avengers don't. And this is such a heavy weight for us to carry, letting it affect our views and our opinions of their actions without allowing the characters to deal with them on their own, demanding trust when they only have half of the story to tell.
> 
> It's a very slippery slope, that one. The secrets we tell, the secrets we keep. The secrets we know, and the secrets they don't. If Steve wants transparency, then I will give it to him; and he will have to pay the price for it, but unfortunately for him, that price is much higher than he would expect. But now we're laying all cards on the table. That is the sacrifice that must be made in name of regaining trust. Half of the job is learning the truth - the other half, learning how to live with it.
> 
> I'll make sure Steve gets there. But sadly, this journey is not a happy one for him, I'm afraid.
> 
> We are almost at the end now! I hope you guys are excited for that. For now, I'd like to thank everyone who has been so incredibly supportive so far, you guys make my day with your lovely comments and your theories, and I am incredibly thankful for your support. Once more, I encourage you to stop by and let me know your thoughts, your headcanons, theories, or whatever the hell you feel like talking about after you read this fic. I'm always very interested in learning more about it.
> 
> Now that the floodgates are open, let's hit Steve right where it hurts; and let's see what exactly does it take to turn this man from the person he was when he left that bunker, to the person he became when the war came around, once again knocking at his door, demanding to be let through.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Remember when I said the previous chapter was half of the entire thing, which implied this, too, would have around 20k? Yeah. Turns out this one has 56k. Should I have divided it again? Probably. But why make anything easier for ourselves?~~
> 
> It's finally time. Bucky and Siberia, in full color and sound-surround. Or, you know, in grotesquely long description and purposefully painful language. Same thing. 
> 
> I feel like this is the most difficult thing to talk about when we talk about CW. Because it's so irrational. Bucky inspires a very visceral reaction in most of us, and his bond with Steve in shown in a very intense light, a light that is carefully designed with the intent of making us feel defensive and protective. It's a very effective scheme. But at the same time it's very exhausting, because we can only follow our emotions blindly up until a certain point before we break. To fit yourself into the shoes of not one, not two, but an entire ensemble of people who are frankly too damn stubborn for their own good is very emotionally distressing, so that is why its so easy to ignore details in favor of grasping at the emotions caused by the big picture. 
> 
> But this is me biting the bullet. Never let it be said that I have stellar self-preservation instincts.
> 
> Bucky, it's your turn. I am done with Steve making harsh decisions using you as an excuse. There are no more time-pressing matters. No more reason to grab a gun and run. How do Steve's arguments hold up, I wonder, when they don't have the adrenaline to hide the less than polished corners of his armor - Or should I say, his shield? Did he think any of this through? That's what we're about to find out. 
> 
> Sam, let's give you some attention too. I feel like you have been set aside for far too long. Sam was in the VA and I have  
> no idea why the MCU has neglected that fact for so long, especially when we have two deeply traumatized individuals constantly sharing screentime with him and the man never says a goddamn word. I'm not ok with that. Time for this man to speak up a bit.
> 
> We still have to deal with one little issue concerning Natasha as well. I meant it when I said her friendship with Steve is very strange; Or rather, in comparison to some of Steve's other relationships, this one in particular seems to come from a place that is a little off. So let's talk about it some more. I'm certainly always very eager to dismantle the details of their relationships for fun. 
> 
> It's finally time for us to discuss the so infamous subject of guilt. How it ties up with responsibility, which Steve is so fond of, and finally discuss the thing that bothers me the most and everyone refuses to acknowledge: how guilt and responsibility impact Wanda's and Bucky's personal identities and sense of self, and how exactly have they (or HAVEN'T they) dealt with it so far, because of Steve's overbearing nature and refusal to allow them to deal with it. But we won't be unfair. Let's bring out some of the skeletons in Steve's closet too, how about that? Because there are a few that I haven't seen a lot of people talk about - and there is one tiny little detail I feel like its important to bring up, a detail that some of you might be already acquainted with, maybe from some Anti-Cap speeches and some bitter Tony stans around the internet, but it is a detail founded on truth. And it only makes this whole thing a hell lot worse.
> 
> Have you ever noticed that somewhere between The Winter Soldier and Civil War, everyone has learned that Bucky is the Winter Soldier? As in: his name is mentioned on the news and he is publicly called Winter Soldier during the news report at the beginning of CW. It happens. It's canon. 
> 
> Does that sound like an important information to you? Maybe not, but it should. I'll tell you why, and you'll see what this information says about Steve's character, his shortsighted logic and, finally, his decision in that bunker and how this - all of this - could have been avoided.
> 
> You're not going to like it. But that is the price of truth.
> 
> Time to face the music, my friends. Because this is where we take all logic and throw it out the window, and we expose Steve's motivations for what they really are. I'm not going easy on him. I'm going to hit him where he's fragile because it's high time someone did it, and did it right, giving him no chance to escape by bringing to the game a overpowered villain or a convenient cliffhanger. No more. Cards on the table, Steve Rogers - Here is the transparency you so ardently wished for. 
> 
> And here is the regret you should have felt in that letter of yours. The honest, true kind of regret.

 

He knows, when the sun comes out, that he has nowhere to run.

He simply knows.

 

(You can’t push me back forever, Rogers.)

 

A few days after they’ve moved to a hotel much closer to Wanda’s and Clint’s, the day of Scott’s trial is announced on TV.

“In a week?” Clint whistles, which is impressive, because he has his mouth full of chicken nuggets they bought from a local fast food joint for dinner at the same time. “They really want to get this shown on the road, don’t they?”

Sam mutters, concerned, frozen in the middle of his movement to dip his fries into the ketchup. “Let’s hope it’ll be a good one and we won’t have to invade the floating prison again after this.”

It is unusually fast— but that is not really surprising, is it? Everyone is probably pulling strings trying to speed up the process, calling in favors, making deals and making threats, all in favor of this one good show. This barbaric judgment. Steve can’t help but feel terrible, as if he’d somehow thrown Scott to the wolves, and now all he can do is stand back and watch as they tear him apart.

He hasn’t, truly. Logically. But logic seems to be failing him, as of late.

It was not his decision, it was not his call and he _knows_ , but the deep pit inside of him is screaming in agony, the constant litany of _you’re allowing this, you’re not stepping up, you’re at fault_ is driving him crazy. Even more so now, when he can hear Clint’s voice right beside that other one, a concerned whisper full of reluctance, full of sadness and sorrow, saying he _has to let it go._ Insisting he has to allow it. That it’s _not_ his call, despite the fact that it _is_ his team; That it’s _not his fight_ , although he feels like it is.

How is this not his fight? He started this.

Christ, he started this. Scott hadn’t even known what he was getting into when he agreed to fight beside them. Steve was the one calling the shots, he was the first to throw the Accords away, he was the one who decided the issue with Zemo had to take priority over the UN. The issue with Bucky, and the other Winter Soldiers. He made that call, and— fuck, it’s so confusing, because he doesn’t _regret_ it, he still thinks he did what had to be done, but Scott shouldn’t pay the price for aiding him.

But he is. He always was, ever since he responded the call. First, as a fugitive, now, as a possible scapegoat.

(There’s no version of this we walk away free.)

(You know that.)

It makes him feel _guilty_ in a way not many things can. Only the Accords. Only the Civil War.

Only—

“What is going to happen to him?” Wanda asks, her voice quiet and insecure, sitting so still she hasn’t even touched the food yet. “If they find him guilty? Will they put him back in the Raft?”

“They won’t.” Natasha affirms, dead certain. “The entire world is watching. Ross can’t put him back in there without alerting the UN now.”

“That’s not very reassuring.” Sam arches his brows, making a face at Natasha.

Natasha shrugs, but not in a lighthearted way. Her face is impassive, her lips pressed tight together and her posture tense. “It’s a start. Anything besides the Raft is negotiable, so as long as he’s not trapped there, we’re good.”

“But we don’t know how the Accords will play out.” Sam argues back, not aggressively, but firmly. “The guy is not an Avenger, so how does he fit in on the superhero stuff? Vision said something about self-defense but claiming self-defense after tearing off the wings of a Boeing is not going to fly.”

“Puns? Really?” Clint huffs out a little laugh, inappropriately amused.

Sam looks at him confused, and only when the meaning of his own words dawns on him he makes an irritated face at Clint, flinging a fry in his direction, which Natasha catches so easily it never even gets close to hitting Clint. Sam huffs, annoyed, and Natasha eats the fry whole while looking him straight in the eye, her face completely blank. There is no trace of amusement in her eyes, only careful, cold consideration.

“His case isn’t bad.” Natasha reassures, after a pause. “He’ll be fine. It’s our reputation we should be worried about.”

“Why?” Wanda asks, confused.

Natasha makes a brief pause, as if she has actually more than one argument and is deciding which one she should present. After a beat, she goes for a question so simple it is obviously a trap:

“What is he going to say when they ask him why he followed you to Leipzig?”

“He was trying to stop Stark from stopping Steve.” Wanda points out, her brows furrowed in puzzlement.

“Stopping Steve from doing what? Helping an international fugitive?”

“Barnes is innocent, though.” Sam replies before Steve has the chance to, frowning, with none of the aggressiveness Steve was sure he’d use if it had been him to speak. It’s like he can’t stop it. It’s an automatic response at this point.

“Is he?” Natasha asks, her voice sugary and taunting, raising one eyebrow in an extremely mocking gesture.

 _There it is._ The same old question, the same line Steve refuses to cross, the issue he doesn’t allow himself to think too much about, because he is so goddamned afraid of what he will find inside his mind if he does.

It’s not really about Scott, Natasha’s comment.

Steve knows Scott won’t even mention Bucky, not if he can help it, because bringing the Winter Soldier issue to the table would be much worse for all parties involved. Steve doesn’t know Scott all that well, but he knows he is no idiot, and he’s probably aware of the fact that playing the ignorance card is the safest bet he has to get out of a very heavy sentence. He is the one with less understanding of the entire debacle involving Bucky, him and Clint both, and the probability of his sticking a foot up his mouth if he tries to use that information as a bargaining chip is way too high for him to risk it.

He can say there was a threat, and he decided to help. If asked, he can deny knowing more details. If asked if he knew about Bucky, he can say he did not; and it would not be a lie. That’s the worst part of it all. _It would not be a lie._ Because Natasha is right, and so much of this problem, of this insane manhunt against Bucky, stems only from the fact that no one _knows_ about him, about the truth and how he is innocent, and they have no proof of it to show, only their word.

And their word doesn’t mean a lot, these days. Not anymore.

Not after everything.

Natasha glances at him, but Steve keeps his mouth shut. He doesn’t trust what he’ll say, if he makes an attempt to.

He feels terrible. He knows what Natasha’s thinking. He knows she knows what he was about to say, and she knows he won’t, because they’ve had this discussion before. Over and over again. But this, this is the one issue they can’t get over it, even after their fight, because they fight over the Accords, never against the other stuff. Maybe it’s because Natasha thinks it’s too personal – and although Steve knows she has no reservations about putting people in a tight spot if she thinks it’s necessary, he also knows Natasha doesn’t deal well with matters that are too close to her heart. He knows, because he doesn’t deal well with his own either.

In this particular matter, they are too much alike, him and Nat. Steve doesn’t know how he should feel about that.

That’s why they avoid it. That’s why they don’t speak about Bucky, or Tony, or Bruce, because they all have complicated feelings, and bruised hearts, and so many regrets. Steve can’t even begin to imagine how it is for her, to have cared for Bruce – to have _loved_ Bruce, maybe – and then have him leave the way he had. How hard must it be, for someone like Natasha, to let someone inside her heart. The walls she built around herself are strong, but they are not unbreakable, and for a woman who isn’t afraid of claiming that love is for children, there is so much love hidden inside her that she has no comfortable way of letting out.

They are not good at this, at opening up. They have been taught how to fight back – never how to surrender.

So they don’t talk about it. Steve wouldn’t know how to approach the subject, even if he tried.

But _she_ tries. Even worse, she always tries to back him up into a corner by doing what she knows he can’t resist – _challenging him_.

From the moment he’d given her the first opening, she’s been doing it. Setting him up on dates, trying to figure out what kind of woman made him tick. After all, when she realized _she_ didn’t, what kind of woman could Steve like, isn’t it? And she had been so _mischievously eager_ too, looking for any clue she could get, jabbing him with comments like _too shy, or too scared?_ or _was that your first kiss since 1945?_

She wasn’t interested in him, not really. Steve knew. But he also knew he was hopeless at interacting with people, getting too attached or not at all, swinging in a continuous pendulum of two extremes that never let him settle down into a normal life.

Natasha sees that, of course she does. She watches him like a hawk. He doesn’t know what she’s trying to find, but there is something, something she thinks he is hiding or concealing or _ignoring_ , which is the word she would probably use, and Steve has no idea what it is. But he guesses it has to do with something which they don’t speak about. And that, in itself, is more than enough reason for Steve to shut himself out at the mere thought of it, because he doesn’t want to give in to the things that make him doubt himself, that make him bleed.

And of course, of _course_ that also applies to Bucky. When Steve thought he was dead, he didn’t even dare to think much about him. He did, sometimes, go to the Smithsonian and visit his own exhibit, just so he could see Bucky and the Commandos – but then again, Steve now knows why he did that. He did that to hurt himself. To remind himself why he was still fighting when all seemed pointless, it’s true, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t _hurt_. Because it did. It did, every single second he observed their pictures and reminded himself they weren’t coming back.

But then, Bucky did. He did come back. And Steve went from nothingness to an almost obsessive chase, pendulum swinging at full speed, one extreme to the other, and he hates that it does but _fuck_ if that doesn’t prove Natasha exactly right.

She prods him because she _knows._ His _anger,_ his _impulses._ He doesn’t know how Natasha deals with her own demons, because Steve is sure she has more than a few, but she is obviously better than him at compartmentalizing; because out of the two of them, Steve is the only one who seems about to explode. He is the one who seems to be _dying slowly_ , silently, and no one can help him stop it.

All of this swinging back and forth, this fight and flight, this _mess_ , it’s driving him insane. He wants to fight the Accords, but he doesn’t want to think about it.

_It._

Not the Accords.

 _It._  

(Never a half measure with you, isn’t it?)

(Either you fight with your whole strength)

(Or you don’t fight at all.)

_I never don’t fight._

(You tell yourself that.)

(Someday, it might even become true.)

“He didn’t explode the conference in Vienna.” Wanda arguments, forcing Steve out of his thoughts, the open discussion on Bucky making his skin prickly and his posture defensive. “They confirmed it was Zemo. It was on the news.”

“He is still the Winter Soldier. He is wanted in over 90 countries, including the US and Germany.” Natasha counters.

“He was mind controlled.” Wanda snaps back and her voice cracks, painfully and _way_ too sad for it to be anything else than a hit too close to home.

“And we have no way to prove it unless he surrenders.” Natasha insists.

And she has a point. There is no footage of what Zemo did to Bucky, when he was arrested in Bucharest – no register of the notebook, or the trigger words, or anything else. Only the before, _Bucky_ , scared and in heavy handcuffs inside a glass cage, breath shallow and eyes wild with fear, and the after, _the Winter Soldier_ , attacking officers and trying to kill them when they tried to contain him. There is no explanation for the in-between. The world doesn’t know. And there is no one else that knows the truth besides them.

There is Zemo, who is currently imprisoned in the Raft, but Zemo doesn’t talk. Everett Ross has tried to force him, Natasha once said, right at those first months on the run, while she was giving them the info she could gather before she made her escape – and Zemo never talked. Not for a sense of smugness or superiority, or so the reports said. There was no arrogance or prepotency in his refusal to cooperate.

“He said his job was done.” He remembers Natasha saying in a hurt whisper, that echoed through the quinjet like a gunshot. “And there was nothing else to say.”

And Steve was not surprised. It had never been about the Winter Soldiers, for Zemo. It had always been about them.

Them – him and Tony.

(Idiots.)

( _Idiots_ , both of us.)

Tony also knows. And reminding himself of that fact hurts, because it comes together with so many other memories, so many other truths Steve is trying so hard to push back. Tony knows, and it makes his chest _ache_ , because he can hear the words he said echoing inside his mind, words that were supposed to be a comfort but now are soaked in betrayal and mourning.

( _Maybe your story is not so crazy._ )

And it wasn’t. He was telling the truth.

He was telling the truth about Bucky.

(Too bad you were lying about something else.)

But Tony will never say a word. He will never say anything that will help Bucky go free. Much like the rest of the world, Tony has gone silent in face of what it is left of them, raising his walls so high that no word on the subject will even pass through his lips. All that Steve has heard of him is about the Accords, about the future for the Avengers, about Spiderman or War Machine or Vision or Iron Man. Never about the rest of them. As if Tony can’t bear the thought of speaking their names anymore.

Steve wishes he could be angry about that, but he can’t.

He will not allow himself to think about the reason why.

“He will not surrender.” Steve interrupts, and everyone in the room turns their head to look back at him, surprised he is speaking after being so silent throughout the entire discussion.

Natasha looks at him unhappily, as if she wants to argue. In the end, she does not.

She wants to talk about Bucky, but Steve will pay her no mind. He knows she is anxious, that the prospect of Scott having a favorable trial is something she is eagerly waiting for, even though she is very good at hiding it; Because if Scott gets away with what happened in Leipzig, chances are they _all_ can get away, if they sign.

The only thing that would stop them is Bucky.

The only thing that would stop _Steve_ is Bucky.

“It doesn’t matter.” Steve continues, as if he cannot see Natasha’s displeasure. “Scott won’t need to tell them anything.”

“And play it safe?” Sam inquires, disbelieving. “You think that will be enough?”

“It will have to be.” It’s all he says, and then he shuts up completely and says nothing else at all.

 

(Cap.)

(It’s time, don’t you think?)

_Tony, please. Not now._

(Stop avoiding me.)

_I’m not._

( _Liar._ )

 

Rare are the times when Steve finds himself alone these days. Even if they are renting two separate rooms, Clint is usually around when Nat and Sam are away, trying to give Wanda some space to practice and think in peace and quiet for a few hours. Steve doesn’t really mind the company – after all, if there is one thing he has now is too much free time, too much silence and too many thoughts, so company stops him from getting too carried away and he appreciates it.

But when he is alone, he has to fill his thoughts somehow, because he just can’t stand the silence anymore.

So, when he finds himself alone in almost two weeks, the first thing he does is open up the comm line and call T’Challa.

“Captain.” The king answers in no more than a few seconds, sounding as calm and wise as ever, as regal as Steve remembers even through the projection of the comm on Steve’s palm. “It’s been a while since we last spoke.”

“Yes, it has.” Steve agrees, his voice surprisingly tired despite the fact he _has_ gotten some sleep the previous night, resisting the urge to rub his eyes as T’Challa watches him. “How have you been, Your Highness?”

T’Challa seems surprised by his question; Whether by his soft tone - so unlike the other times T’Challa has heard him speak, probably the first time he has allowed himself to be unguarded in the king’s presence ever since they met -, or by the _genuine_ curiosity in his voice, the unexpected willingness to talk and the shocking opening Steve is giving him, when T’Challa has only known him at his most guarded before today.

Steve wonders what he must look like, in T’Challa’s eyes.

He wonders if he looks defeated.

It is certainly how he feels.

“Everything is fine, thank you for your concern.” T’Challa kindly says, his voice giving none of his curiosity away, despite the fact that his eyes sparkle with inquiry all the same. But there is a knowing smirk on his face, not smug but soft, as if something in Steve’s demeanor amuses him in some way.

“I suppose you are calling to talk to Sergeant Barnes?” He asks then, sounding purposefully innocent. “I apologize, he is not here at the moment. I will give you the key to a secure line, from which you can contact him directly. You are not allowed on the grounds where he is residing, but that doesn’t mean you can’t contact him.”

“Thank you, Your Highness, I’d appreciate it.” Steve automatically says, the offer getting him off guard— and then, when he realizes what he’s doing, he forces himself to take a step back. “But that’s not why I’m calling.”

T’Challa makes a pause, and that is the only hint that Steve has that he is confused by his words. “Then what is it?”

“I suppose you’ve heard the news.” Steve says, nonsensically, because of course he has. The man is a supporter of the Accords and the king of a nation who abides by them. Of course he has heard. “About Scott, surrendering. Going on trial.”

T’Challa frowns deeply, the amusement ebbing away from his posture, giving place to a stilted, careful consideration.

“Yes, I am monitoring the situation.” T’Challa says, but doesn’t offer any other commentary, and Steve has the distinct impression that if he doesn’t say anything else, this conversation will run dry very soon, because T’Challa is giving him _nothing_.

He is very obviously waiting for Steve’s reaction to it, which Steve can understand, considering that the last time T’Challa heard him talk about anything involving the Accords, Steve had been out of his mind, fuming with rage and betrayal, about to start a war with one of his teammates and closest friends.

(Again.)

But this time, Steve will not react aggressively. He has no strength left in him to do so. He has argued about the Accords over and over and he is tired of it - He won’t start another war because of it. He can’t lose any more than he already has. He knows he wasn’t wrong, at least not completely, and that is enough for him; but he knows now that _other_ people – and he will not think about who any deeper than that, he will not open that door right now – aren’t wrong either on their logic. Both sides have lost too much already without him throwing anymore stones at this so fragile structure of thought.

He doesn’t want to think about rights and wrongs now. Now it is too late. The Accords already exist, and Scott has already signed them. He is already beyond their reach. The only thing Steve wants now is to _believe_ , believe nothing will go wrong and that T’Challa and Nat might be right, that the Accords might actually do some good now, after long months of revision and amendments. Even though Steve hates that they exist at all, how he regrets he wasn’t there to help them figure out a way to make this better—

He sounds like a complete hypocrite when he thinks that, but dear God, he does. He regrets he wasn’t there. Because he cannot fully trust them, _the safest hands are still our own_ , and he wants to stop thinking like that because he knows that’s what got him in a fight in the first place, but he can’t _stop it._

 _Let them be_ , the echoes of Clint’s voice whisper to him.

_Let them be._

But Steve just can’t obey.

“Any news you can share about it, off the record?” He asks, aiming for humor but failing spectacularly at it, sounding only desperate and pathetic, so ridiculously hollow.

“I’m afraid not.” T’Challa sighs. “I might be a strong ally for the Sokovia Accords, Captain, but unfortunately, I have little say on the legal matters of Mr. Lang’s arrest. Besides the Accords Committee, Germany’s decision will be the key factor in the final verdict.”

Germany. There are so many layers to this issue that Steve sometimes loses track of them – the Accords, but there is also Bucky, and there is also Germany, and there is also— so many other things.

“Yeah.” Steve exhales hesitantly. “We… We really messed up that airport, didn’t we?”

“I’d say you did, Captain.” T’Challa echos, and even with his impassive expression and calm tone, Steve feels profoundly _reprimanded._

That’s bad, isn’t it? Germany. Steve supposes their relationship whit the US is far more amicable now, because the War is so far behind them, but he can’t help but feel like it was not so long ago. Because it really hasn’t, much less for him. He remembers Bucky making a comment about it amidst the beautiful gardens of Wakanda, about how Steve had been just of the brink of starting another war between the two nations, and the idea chills him to the bone.

He hopes he didn’t do it. God, he really hopes he didn’t do it.

When he thinks about it… _Really_ thinks about it, after so many nights awake in restless fidgeting, staring at blank walls while his teammates doze peacefully behind him, with only the quiet and the cold and the phantom sensation of a long-lost friend beside him, Steve realizes how _unfair_ it was, to the Germans. What he has done. They were on the run already, he knows, they had no luxury of picking and choosing the circumstances of their escape – and Germany had been the closest country with the aircraft they needed to get to Siberia on time.

They _invaded_ it. All the while, Steve knew; But more than that, he kept telling himself that _it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, we gotta be faster, we have to go before Tony catches up to us_ – and that’s what drove him forward. He didn’t even hesitate. He didn’t think twice about it, he never does, because he assessed that the threat of five Winter Soldiers was bigger than anything else on their plate at the moment and that was all he cared about. He could deal with the consequences later, he thought. Later, when he had the time.

Danger first, thinking later.

The way of the soldier.

(So naïve of you.)

( _Later._ )

(If there is one thing you don’t have in this world, Rogers, is the favor of time.)

(Why did you think you would have a _later_?)

It was a real threat, at that time. He… He doesn’t think he was wrong, giving it priority. He wasn’t wrong about that. But—

(Isn’t that why the world is afraid of us in the first place?)

And there is that doubt, there is that regret and that second thoughts that have been plaguing his minds and driving him insane, because _Tony won’t leave him alone—_

(We invade and we destroy, we _deserve this—_ )

_Christ, Tony, stop._

(No!)

(I won’t stop until you admit it!)

_Admit what, exactly?_

_That I could have done better?_

_We always could’ve done better!_

(You could have _trusted_ me instead of _fighting me._ )

(You could have _told me._ )

_I did._

(When we were about to fight.)

(After they vacated a whole damn airport because of us.)

(After I assembled an entire fucking team to fight you.)

(After you did the same to _me_.)

(Too late, Rogers! Too late!)

Could Steve have told Tony earlier? Could he… Could he have avoided the destruction they left behind in Leipzig?

Because he had the time. He had. He had had the time to help Bucky with his wounds, time for Sam to call Scott, time for him to call Clint, time to _get back his shield…_ And none of that time was spent even _thinking_ about telling Tony.

 _No, that’s not true. I was going to tell him_.

(And what did Sam say?)

( _He won’t believe._ )

(And you _agreed with him_.)

(You believed him.)

(Fuck, is that what you think of me?)

_I don’t think bad about you, Tony—!_

But he didn’t listen.

(Don’t you start, Rogers!)

_You didn’t!_

_I told you, at the airport, and you didn’t listen._

(You ignored my words!)

(You went behind my back!)

(You were _ready to fight me_.)

(And you think you have any right to tell me I didn’t listen to you!?)

_If you had listened—!_

( _Give me a break!_ )

Steve’s breath comes out in a shudder, half rage and half exhaustion, his eyes stinging so damn much, he is so _fucking tired._

He is sorry. He is legitimately sorry for how things went in Germany. He wants to say he had no choice, despite Tony’s voice screaming inside his head that this isn’t true, but he feels like he had no choice and he is sorry for that. They destroyed the airport, he _knows,_ he scared people once again and he is _sorry._

That is the occupational hazard of his profession, he is aware of that – but he is also aware that people often don’t remember that fact. They don’t want destruction. They never do, no matter who it comes from, the heroes or the villains. The war they created between them, the war they brought with them to that airport in Leipzig – it wasn’t the German’s war. They had no right. They did it wrong.

Steve knows.

Fuck, but it’s so complicated, to feel regret – but at the same time, not. He doesn’t regret fighting. But he regrets how it happened.

(How _noble_ of you.)

_It’s all I can do, Tony._

(Yeah.)

(The sad thing is that you honestly believe that.)

Steve shakes his head, trying to push away the intrusive thoughts, when he realizes the call is still on and T’Challa is _watching_ him. Steve doesn’t know how long has passed, how long he stood there in silence, arguing with the voice in his head like a complete lunatic, almost having a mental breakdown in front of Wakanda’s king. Steve chastises himself for his stupid, pathetic vulnerability, for dragging T’Challa into his ridiculous show of self-pity that Steve can’t seem to escape.

All of this, Scott signing, Tony in his head, Natasha pushing him about Bucky…

Is driving him i _nsane._ Soon enough, Steve feels like he will _snap._

“T’Challa.” Steve mutters, after a long, heavy pause, taking in a deep breath and letting it do so harshly that its almost painful. “I have to ask you something.”

T’Challa makes no sound, but nods.

“When did you give the Accords to Scott?” Steve asks, with barely a hint of an accusation in his voice.

T’Challa doesn’t seem surprised. There is not a single emotion crossing his face as he asks back:

“Would it make you feel better, knowing when it happened?”

“No, it wouldn’t.” Steve admits, a little bitter. “Either you gave them to him a long time ago, and although he had months to read it through, he still went for it… Or you gave him recently, and he barely read them before he accepted. None of those options would make me feel better.”

“Why is that?”

Steve makes a pause, wondering if there’s any way he can explain himself without sounding like a total control-freak.

And then he realizes that no, there isn’t.

At the end of the day, Steve still believes that the safest hands are their own, and he is still willing to fight for that right. And it hurts, it cuts deep and makes him bleed, because even though his instinct is to push out his chest and say he will make the call and act on it even if the world tells him he’s wrong, the thought that immediately follows that one is the image of his shield, broken and bloodied, painted on a brick wall, the evidence of the fear he left behind along with the destruction his presence brought, everywhere he went.

People look at him and see Captain America, a tool for the US government. No one looks at him and sees Steve Rogers, the man who only wants to help, the man who’s only trying to do what he thinks it’s right.

And how can he change that?

Would anyone believe him?

“You know why.” It’s what he chooses to say. It’s the coward’s way out, he knows, but he takes it anyway. It’s not like it isn’t true. T’Challa knows. He knows why Steve is so damn worried about this. There is no need for the group therapy – Steve is not willing, nor strong enough for this right now.

The king stares down at him for a moment – which only goes to show how much power he holds in his posture and presence, because he is no more than a small projection on Steve’s palm, and still, Steve feels like he somehow is being analyzed from above, like a child under the inspection of an extremely demanding adult –, before he says:

“Captain, I will ask you a question in return.” T’Challa doesn’t ask, he merely informs, even if his tone amicable.

“Of course.”

“If you find the Accords to be so unreasonable.” T’Challa stressed the word _unreasonable_ , as if he’s only using this word for Steve’s sake. “Why didn’t you stop Mr. Lang from leaving?”

Steve reels back for a moment, shocked.

“I can’t control Scott’s decisions.” he immediately replies, uncomfortable with the idea.

T’Challa blinks at him. “But you think you are entitled to question me for the information about his decision.”

_I do._

Christ, that doesn’t make any sense, does it?

“I guess that makes me sound like a complete asshole, doesn’t it?” Steve ruefully laughs, averting his gaze to the floor. “I don’t know how I feel about this, T’Challa.”

“I’m sorry.” T’Challa says, honestly. “Asking me for guidance will not help in this case.”

Steve looks at him desperately. “If not you, then who else?”

“The Accords are not the reason you are conflicted, Captain. I can only help on the matters I’m familiar with.”

“I still am concerned about the Accords.” Steve says, and he sounds nonsensical. Like a child, stomping their foot on the ground when they are annoyed when their parent isn’t listening to them, as if T’Challa is somehow being purposefully difficult and ignoring Steve’s worries. “I still won’t agree with them.”

“A strong opinion, considering you haven’t read any version of the document ever since you left the United States.” The king says, and his amusement sounds like judgment in Steve’s ears.

“Do you think I’m being unreasonable?” Steve emphatically drags out the last word, throwing it back at T’Challa.

“I think you are rejecting something because you don’t allow yourself to think about it.” T’Challa says cryptically.

There’s that word again.

Rejection.

At this point, it feels _personal._

“You think I’m running from something.” Steve half growls, but he feels terrible because _he is_ , he is running from something, but T’Challa has no idea what it is, how _dare_ he think he knows what exactly is driving Steve insane about all of this? “And what is that you think I’m running from?”

“The possibility of hurt.” T’Challa affirms, voice mellow and understanding, so full of genuine concern that it’s the only thing that stops Steve from replying in a very rude manner. “I do not blame you for it, Captain. We all like to avoid pain. But our actions have consequences, consequences that sometimes affect the ones we care about, but we must face them anyway. It is our burden, in this life.”

Our burden, he says.

Steve is not burdened for being a hero. Steve is burdened for being simply _human._

_Its not the choices I make as Captain America that haunt me._

_It’s the choices I made as Steve Rogers._

“The Accords don’t have to be a concern. If you wish to read the new version, all you have to do is ask.” T’Challa assures him through his anguish, and Steve makes all the effort he can manage to keep himself grounded on the king’s words, his soft tone and his hopeful promise, even though Steve knows he will never take up on that offer. “Perhaps reading them will put some of your doubts at rest.”

“Did anyone ask?”

“It’s not me you should ask that question to, Captain.” The king arches his brows, amused. “If it makes you feel conflicted, you should do with your other teammates what you did with Agent Romanov. You should _listen_.”

T’Challa is a good man. He could have thrown those words in Steve’s face with a cruel tone, to make him feel ashamed and guilty over his reluctance to accept the dubious morality of the situation they find themselves into, to make fun of his unwillingness to showcase even the slightest hint of the shame he feels, to call him, without any words, _self-righteous_ and _proud_ and _selfish._

But he does not.

Steve wonders if this is what friendship with T’Challa is like. Cutting but enlightening, demanding but kind.

He’d like to think it is.

“I still haven’t forgotten what you did, you know.” Steve scoffs, but there is no sharpness in his voice. “Pushing me and Natasha into a fight.”

T’Challa smiles. “You will get over it.”

A good man. Like Steve wants to be.

T’Challa had no obligation to help him. Or Bucky, or any of them. T’Challa is the living proof that being on different sides of the Accords is no reason for a war, no reason for it to be the end, for any of them. It is not ideal, Steve isn’t ignorant enough to lose sight of the fact that the only reason why they are able to speak at all is because they do it in secret, because T’Challa is breaking the Accords at the same pace he is strengthening them, but if one day the Accords are as good as T’Challa hopes they will be, this will no longer be an issue. There will no longer be the need to hide. Someday, if things get better, this divide can dissolve itself and vanish into thin air, like it should, as it had never existed at all.

( _The world is never kind._ )

But that has never stopped Steve from hoping.

(What the hell are you still hoping for?)

_You know what, Tony._

_You know what I’m hoping for._

“Have you—” Steve starts, but the words get caught awkwardly in his throat. A pause, filled with uncertainty. “Seen Tony?”

In a matter of seconds, T’Challa’s face goes suspiciously blank.

It is— It is almost _insulting_ to see how quick his expression closes off with deep consideration, and his eyebrows twitch, only a little, the only evidence that Steve’s question has surprised him so much that he couldn’t quite stop that tiny twitch from happening. Steve has no right to feel insulted; Tony has made very, _painfully_ clear that he has no intentions of contacting him for anything short of the end of the world, but still – Steve still thinks about it. About how he is doing.

About that _Arc Reactor_ in his chest.

T’Challa probably hadn’t expect him to ask. He doesn’t know if T’Challa thinks he doesn’t _care_ , but he obviously thought he wouldn’t _ask._ Like asking is admitting it. And, in some forms, it is – it is admitting that Steve is shaken from the sight of Tony’s chest glowing bright blue again, it is admitting that not knowing is simply something he cannot accept.

Is that also part of that dark place in him, the piece of his mind that demands that he keeps control and vigilance over his teammates? Is this another proof that he is terrible at letting go, of problems, of people, even when they are not his to keep?

T’Challa is _analyzing_ him. Almost as if he can’t believe what he just heard.

“Not in a while.” He says, carefully, his words precisely enunciated and evenly paced, as an orator would speak to a stranger in the audience. “Mr. Stark has been very busy, or so I’m told.”

“I’m sure he is.” Steve says, crestfallen, feeling so damn stupid for hoping he would hear anything different than he already has. _Silence._ That is the answer he will always get. “I was just wondering.”

“Hm.” Oh, no, the hum. “There is no need to be concerned, Captain. Stark will not allow Mr. Lang to be detained at the Raft.”

 _How can you possibly now that?_ Steve wants to ask. _Because Tony promised you?_

(Cap…)

_No, no. Not now, Tony._

(Then _when?!_ )

“Then why did it happen before?” Steve whispers, almost like a plea, because he can’t find the answer for himself no matter how hard he tries. “Why didn’t he stop it?”

“Because he was looking for you.” T’Challa immediately says, and all the blood in Steve’s body freezes, because it’s _true._ “You are the most important piece, Captain. With you on his side, fixing everything else would’ve been easier.”

 _Define the priority, assess the danger, find the solution_.

Steve had been Tony’s priority.

Steve was Tony’s solution.

(As it turns out.)

(You were also my danger.)

(How poetic is that?)

_Tony, **please**. _

(It’s true, Rogers.)

( _Deal with it_.)

(Isn’t that what you wanted?)

Not like this. Never, never like this.

“So it’s my fault?” Steve croaks, with half smile on his face. It is not amused, or sarcastic, or sad. It doesn’t feel like anything at all.

“Do you think it is?” T’Challa presses – and that is the exact word Steve should use, _presses_ , because T’Challa is doing it again, he is pushing Steve against something only Steve doesn’t know _what_ this time.

“No.” Steve replies. “It was Ross’. Not mine. Not Tony’s.”

_Not our fault._

(The Raft, maybe.)

(But what about the rest, Steve?)

(What about Sokovia? What about Germany?)

(What about _Siberia_?)

**_Stop it._ **

“The hard decisions of a leader.” T’Challa thinks aloud. “You had to choose between a teammate and a friend. No choice will ever feel right.”

“A friend.” Steve corrects him with a deep, sorrowful sigh. “Between one friend and another.”

T’Challa stays silent for a moment, and Steve almost thinks he, for some reason, has rendered T’Challa speechless— When T’challa _smiles,_ satisfied and pleased, full of smugness, as if Steve had just given him the exact answer he was looking for. Steve doesn’t know why that is, but his mind is running wild with the possibilities, uneasy with the look the king is giving him and oh, did T’Challa think he didn’t consider Tony a friend? Fuck, was that it?

_No, it can’t be. He knows I wouldn’t have asked about Tony if I didn’t care._

T’Challa schools his facial expression into something more appropriate, a smile demurer and kinder, wiser and more respectful, but it is too late. Steve has seen something behind that smile that makes his skin crawl, a slight suspicion that T’Challa knows something Steve doesn’t, he _suspected_ something, and Steve has just confirmed it to him.

He wonders if T’Challa doubted he still considered Tony a friend, for stubbornness and pride.

He wonders if T’Challa thought he would never be willing to mend his team back together, for his silence and his anger.

But that could not be farther from the truth.

If Steve could drop everything right at this moment and go back home, he would.

He misses it. He misses _home._

“Would you like to read them, Captain?” T’Challa offers once more, a hint of something gleeful on his voice, so well hidden he can barely see it, though his eyes are shining with a brilliant hope. “I would be glad to provide them to you.”

Steve makes a pause to consider the offer, and the oh so heavy weight it carries.

“Will I agree with them, T’Challa?” Steve asks - as a taunt, as a legitimate concern, he isn’t sure. But he must ask. “You know why I refuse to sign them. Tell me. If I read them, as they are, will I sign them?”

T’Challa gives him a grin, something that is almost exasperatedly fond, reluctant delight, as a man who knows he’s about to lose and doesn’t care about it all the same.

“No.” He concludes. “I don’t think you will. Not yet, Captain.”

“Then I’ll wait.” Steve declares firmly. “When they’re better, you can give me them. I will read them, when the time comes. But I have read them before, Your Highness, and I don’t think my mind will change no matter how wonderful you make them sound. As long as they won’t let us go home, won’t let us _help_ , I won’t stand down.”

T’Challa gives a small laugh, polite and elegant, but with a sharp note of _mirth_ Steve just can’t ignore.

“I thought you would say that.”

“Then why did you offer?” Steve jabs.

“I enjoy being right.” T’Challa answers, and as much as it sounds like a joke, Steve knows some of it it’s true. “But it’s fine. The offer will stand, for as long as it’s needed.”

And Steve won’t take up on that offer for a very long time, but he nods in acquiescence and, to be perfectly honest, in gratitude.

He cannot read the Accords right now, but he recognizes T’Challa’s offer for the olive branch that it is. Steve has passed the opportunity of taking many of those lately. Even if he is too rejecting this one, he won’t do it with anger – because he _wants it_ , it’s just not the right time.

Not yet.

(Tick, tick, tick.)

(Time is running out.)

( _What will you do?_ )

T’Challa watches him for a moment, perhaps waiting for Steve to say something else, but he never does. He doesn’t know what else to say. He’d like to offer help in revising the Accords, but he can’t, and he’d like to ask T’Challa more about Tony, but he won’t. Steve has done what he could. He has positioned himself against the Accords, and now he has to wait to see how they develop; and he has given Tony a way to reach him, and he has to wait for him to make the phone call. The ball is no longer in his court.

And although it feels like sinking with anchors attached to his ankles, he has to wait, because as much as Steve doesn’t mind charging ahead and doing what it must be done, Steve still wants to know… He really wants to know if, someday, he will be needed.

By the world. By Tony.

“When they are better.” Steve mutters. “You can give them to me.”

“I will.” T’Challa assures.

And then, he laughs.

“But I have to say… That when the day comes that you agree with the Accords, my friend.” He says. “I doubt I will be the one to give you the news.”

Oh. Oh, that— that makes his chest _hurt_. He fears, for a second, that he might have misunderstood, but the graceful glee in the king’s face makes no room for mistake, no second guessing to what he means. How does he— does he _know?_ About the phone? No, it can’t be, how could he? Steve doesn’t remember ever taking it out of his pocket when T’Challa was around. How can he know? Could it be that he is talking about _Vision_? Does the king know that another person who sided with the Accords is now breaking them, as he is _letting it happen?_ Just as he is letting them escape?

Maybe. Maybe not. Steve doesn’t really care.

All he knows is that the mere thought of it makes his heart constrict in the most bittersweet way, a wishful thinking and a fierce desire, the so naïve expectation that T’Challa might be right. That when that day comes, Steve will realize it in the form of a long-awaited ringtone, the phone between his hands finally, _finally_ trying to establish a connection, and he will pick it up and he will make this _right._

He doesn’t know _how the hell_ T’Challa knows.

All he knows is that _God,_ he is desperate for it to happen.

“I hope so.” Steve says, nearly breathless, and if feels like a _confession_ in the strangest of ways. “I’m waiting for it.”

“You don’t need to worry.” T’Challa mellowly comforts him, so full of certainty and confidence that Steve feels a flame of something warm and bright flicker awake inside of him, something so optimistic he barely recognizes it as part of himself. “You will all come together again, when the time is right.”

“Thank you, T’Challa.” Steve exhales, feelings his lips twitch in a semblance of a smile, a genuine smile, something he hasn’t done in a very long time.

“There is no need to thank me.” T’Challa laughs. “It is only the truth.”

 

(Did you consider me a friend?)

_I did._

_I still do, Tony._

(I did too.)

(I wonder if I’ll ever be able to do it again.)

_I hope you do._

(I do too.)

(Will we talk about this now?)

_Not yet._

_Not yet, Tony._

(Huh. Of course.)

(Great way to treat your friends, _Cap_.)

 

Scott’s trial is not transmitted to the public.

It surprises him, but at the same time, it doesn’t. Giving it away in full detail for the public would’ve been a nightmare, handing over all reasons and ammunition for a renewed fight over who was right and who was wrong, and Steve is so damn glad it doesn’t happen. He wouldn’t stand it, to be forced to sit back and watch, really watch this time, as the world split itself in two over their conflict, over accepting them or letting them burn, _the true aftermath of their actions._

But there is some information going around. Reporters have kept guard outside the courtroom for the entire duration of the interrogation, so every once in a while, there is some new detail being transmitted or some rumor going about. Some say it’s going badly. Some say it might be a positive outcome. It’s so hard to tell, because Steve can _hear_ the bias in the reporters’ words, some very openly condemning Tony’s team or Steve’s team, calling Scott brave or a menace, pushing and pulling in different directions so intensely they can’t really tell what’s going on. He can’t trust any of those words. All he can do is wait for the final verdict, and wish with all his might that the outcome will be a good one.

In the end, none of them sleep for the first three days. They try, but they simply can’t.

The TV stays on for all 72 hours and then some, all of them making this unspoken rotation over the available spaces in Clint’s and Wanda’s small apartment for them to sit and wait, making grocery runs at the speed of light whenever they are necessary. Some of them stress eat, a lot, particularly Sam and Wanda. Clint, much like Steve, often forgets to eat. Natasha is watching their every move, and she pushes plates of snacks and leftovers at them whenever they have spent too long without ingesting anything – and although Clint always looks a little surprised when she presents him with a plate, he never turns it down, always giving Nat a grateful look as he takes his first bite.

Steve watches them, holding his plate and not taking a single bite, and he thinks he has found out where the insistence Natasha has of making him eat comes from.

He wonders what it means, that she has extended this habit to him as well.

After some time, the exhaustion starts dragging them down – and they uncomfortably doze off occasionally, still half listening to the news, when Natasha finally decides she has had enough and turns it off, commanding them all to sleep.

It goes on for a while. It’s not the best arrangement, but it’s not like they can do anything else.

They all look like death warmed over when a true verdict finally arrives.

“Here they are!” Is the announcement that makes them all jolt on their seats, spoken in a shrill tone directly to a microphone, the rush of breath of the reporter causing an unpleasant sound that makes them all wince, before she continues:

“Ladies and gentlemen, Congressman Holt, Secretary Ross and Judge Talbot are leaving the plenary, after fourteen hours of deliberation - to announce what is the final verdict for Scott Lang, codenamed Ant-Man, who sided with Captain America and the Rogue Avengers in a fight against the Sokovia Accords.”

The reporter, a woman who looks almost as disheveled as they do, keeps talking over the moving images of three men leaving a courthouse in slow, steady steps, surrounded by a cacophony of screams and flashes and people, so maddening it’s almost impossible to watch. She goes on about what the Accords are and what kind of problems have arisen over their existence since they were first presented, including the attack in Vienna by Helmut Zemo and – _fuck –_ the so-called Civil War between the Avengers.

She then proceeds to give a quick explanation about who Scott is and what has been the general opinion of the judgment panel over his case, which Steve would’ve liked to hear more about it, but the woman is tripping over her words and speaking in a rush, because a man – who Steve doesn’t recognize, but it is not Ross, because he stands behind the one who comes forward to the crowd and faces the first wave of cameras and microphones that are shoved into his face –, after a brief pause, announces, his voice hoarse and tired, but deep and imposing, bringing down the gavel that will seal Scott’s fate from now on.

“After longs hours of deliberation.” The man says, and the identification beneath his image tells them this is Judge Talbot, the very man who might have just sentenced Scott for a terrible fate; or not. “The delegation, along with World Security Council, the United Nations’ Enhanced Individuals’ Protection Board, and the American and the German representatives of the Sokovia Accords, has decided to sentence Scott Lang, the man known as Ant-Man, who sided with Captain America and the other Rogue Avengers against the Accords, to a prison sentence of ten years, to be carried out in the United States Penitentiary in California—"

“ _Ten years_?” Wanda gasps softly, her hands gripping tight at the armrests of her flimsy chair, her entire body vibrating with a nervous energy that is almost visible in the air. She looks like she is about pass out.

_Ten years._

_But—_

“Not in the Raft.” Sam mumbles.

“Not even in San Quentin.” Natasha exhales softly, as if she suddenly has had a realization. “They will reduce his sentence. San Quentin is a nightmare and the only prison in California with a death row, and Scott served there for _breaking and entering._ They are putting him in Atwater for _international invasion_. They are going to reduce his sentence.”

_They did it._

Scott won’t be going back to the Raft. Scott is— well, he’s not _free_ , but he is not hopeless either.

_No Raft._

_They did it._

“So, this is good.” Clint says, allowing himself to fall back into his chair, taking a breath so deep it’s a surprise it doesn’t hurt his lungs. Steve is unsure if he is asking or if he’s affirming it. He is unsure of Clint even knows what he is trying to say. “This is good.”

“I wouldn’t say _good_ , but… It’s something.” Sam concedes, shaking his head in an unsure gesture. “Something better than the Raft.”

No one refutes the words; and the silence that falls between them is onerous.

They are not sure how they should proceed from here. Steve doesn’t even know what they were all expecting; Something much worse, for starters – something that might have forced them to suit up and invade the Raft again, something that would once again spark a fight, something _dangerous_. Instead… he feels no danger. He doesn’t feel much of anything, to be honest, just a dull sense that tells him that _he can breathe now_ , the same feeling he gets right when the battle finishes, and he realizes he can stop.

How ironic is that, that a peaceful solution has left him feeling so bleak, after everything the Accords have caused?

He’s glad. In the end, he is gladder than anything else, because if the ten years sentence means that Scott won’t be going to the Raft, Steve will take that as the silver lining that it is. He’d expected to feel more anger. Hell, to be honest, Steve had imagined he would be _furious_ , no matter the outcome had been – because in the end, it was still a trial. In the end, Scott is still being sentenced to jail for doing something so simple as helping Steve stalling Tony, as helping _Captain America_ , who once had been the very symbol of freedom of the United States.

How fucking ironic is that?

But Steve isn’t angry. Not anymore. He kind of wants to be, feels like he should be, on principle, but he can’t really muster the strength to do it. Because he is glad. Scott had nothing to do with the Accords, nothing to do with their fight – he was just a guy, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. For the wrong reasons. Steve will keep himself glad that he will be safe and will ask for nothing else, because he knows his fight is not Scott’s fight anymore.

This is not about the Accords, it’s about Germany. The Accords probably aren’t even the first thing in Scott’s mind at the moment.

He wonders if Scott will sign the Accords. He wonders if it will make any difference, if he does. Scott has already been very clear in his stance about being a hero, and he had no shame in admitting he would gladly give it up if that meant he would see his daughter again.

Steve can understand. He will not resent Scott for this. How hypocritical of him it would be if he did, when Steve is the one who thinks of the Avengers Compound and the word that comes to his mind is _home_ , and everything inside him screams in an agonizing chant of _please, please, please_ , begging him to find a way back to the only scrap of normalcy he used to have? The only period in his life after the ice he actually felt like he was doing something? No, Steve cannot blame Scott for wanting to be with his family.

Steve wants the same. The only problem is that Steve’s family is broken.

Suddenly, he _needs_ to know.

“Did any of you read the new ones?” Steve cuts the silence with a question so heavy, so difficult, that he might as well have taken out a gun and threatened them with it – because they all stare at him wide-eyed, open-mouthed, stunned by his bold inquiry; Or, maybe, incredulous of the so docile tone he uses when he does. “The Accords. T’Challa gave them to Scott. Did any of you ask him to read them?”

“What?” Sam chokes, not because he didn’t listen, but because he cannot believe Steve has just asked that question.

“I’m just asking.” Steve says, trying to sound as nonchalant as he can, but it doesn’t help erasing the bewildered look on his teammates’ faces.

No one answers his question. They all throw cautious glances at one another, as if they are too afraid – or maybe, they are wondering if he has finally lost his mind.

Maybe he has. Why would he bring it up so calmly?

“It’s fine, I won’t start a fight. I have no right to. I just want to know.” He assures, looking at them almost coyly, smiling lightly and keeping himself in a relaxed position, elbow atop the counter and feet crossed while he supports them on the legs of the stool, a position that would not allow any kind of surprise attack if he were to do so. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t stare at them. He just spares them a glance, barely a second for each one, hoping he is coming across as non-threatening by making himself sound gentle and keeping his frame small.

It’s a bit difficult, given his size; But he tries. Steve is very good at body language, despite what people seem to think of his social skills – or lack of –, because he relied on body language almost his entire life. He was small, and everything he did was to make himself look bigger and taller. He knows how to make himself look imposing. And now he is so big, doing the opposite and attempting to make himself look smaller is almost like a challenge, not only physical but mental, a position he feels so uncomfortable in, but he had to learn how to do it, out of necessity.

He’s not very good at it, appearing vulnerable. But that is not really a surprise, is it?

There is another pause, less heavy this time. And then—

“I did.” Clint says. “Right after Scott did.”

Natasha and Sam turn their gazes at him, sharp and careful, but Wanda outright _gasps_ and shifts on her seat, turning her body to face Clint, her face incredulous.

“When was that?” She asks breathlessly.

“A couple months ago. Maybe six or seven.” Clint confesses, in a reassuring tone, giving Wanda a placating look. When he does, Steve suddenly asks himself if Wanda is worried that Clint has asked for the Accords because of _her_ , of the unknowing attack she inflicted on him during her nightmares; And then Steve halts and realizes that Clint said that misunderstanding had happened _five_ months ago.

Which means he has had the Accords for even longer than that.

“I’ve read three versions of it so far.” Clint comments, keeping his tone very lighthearted, as if avoiding starting any sort of bad reaction; whether from Wanda, or from Steve. “It changes every time.”

“That’s fast, for a document that’s so extensive.” Natasha points out, seemingly innocent, but so obviously not.

“I thought so too.” Clint clears his throat. “But somebody has been really working their ass off trying to change them.”

 _Somebody_ , isn’t that a joke.

They all know.

They all know who it is.

“Why?” Wanda insists, and Steve is glad when he realizes that her tone is not _sadness_ or _betrayal_ , it’s simply confusion.

“Because I didn’t get to read them, before.” Clint justifies. “I mean— I’m not sorry I helped, but I kind of got into this mess without really knowing what it was all about.”

“You knew half of it.” Natasha muses, and Clint turns his head to look at her, curious, and they share a silent gaze that says more than entire conversations ever could, in less than a few seconds.

“Yeah, and it was an important half, I’ll admit it, but I felt like I had to read the damn thing eventually. So I did.”

“And?” Steve presses.

Clint then turns to look at him, and for the first time in his life, Steve feels completely transparent.

“You want the truth?” He says exasperatedly, almost goading Steve into arguing back, but before he can, Clint continues and says: “They’re not that bad.”

Wanda makes a noise like she wants to protest, but whatever she was about to say, she doesn’t get the chance.

“Not that bad?” Sam interrupts, scoffing. “C’mon, man.”

“Compared to what I’ve heard about them, they aren’t.” Clint argues back.

“They locked us inside a floating prison—”

“And I didn’t know why, so I read about it.” Clint defends. “And guess what? I didn’t see anything about a floating prison in those Accords.”

“So, what, they took it out and now it’s cool?”

“Did you not hear Scott’s verdict a few minutes ago?” Clint points to the television, accusingly. “No Raft. So yeah, it’s cool. It’s getting _better_.”

“Not good _enough_ , if we’re still being treated like criminals.” Sam argues, inclining himself forward so he can get closer to Clint’s face, challenging him unconsciously, making himself look wider and more aggressive. “That’s not good enough.”

“For you.” Clint shoots him a deriding smile. “Yeah. You want to fight, and you can’t go. But I don’t wanna fight, I wanna go _home._ ”

_Oh._

(There it is.)

_There it is._

Steve had known this day would come.

Fuck, isn’t that awful? Isn’t that proof enough of how fucked up they are?

He’d known this day would come.

“Alright? There, I said it. I wanna go home.” Clint sighs, running his hands through his hair in aggravation, panting as if he’d just run a marathon. When no one says a word, he grunts and leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees, making sure everyone can see his face as he speaks, with utmost sincerity:

“And it has nothing to do with you guys, ok? I— I don’t regret being here, I don’t regret fighting. I owed you a favor, Cap, and I didn’t like the idea of the team being controlled by a shifty bastard like Ross.” He gesticulates wildly with his hands, indignant. “But maybe, letting my family down because of a favor hasn’t been the smartest decision I’ve ever made. And maybe… maybe I should have read the damn document I did that for. I should have. But I didn’t, and now it’s done, whatever, but if I have _any chance_ of getting a way back, so I can go home, you bet your ass I’m gonna take it.”

He gives Sam a piercing glare, expression hard and closed off, daring him to say another word in disagreement. Sam does not. He just stares back, kind of speechless, kind of guilty, and Clint feels bad for his harsh declaration in less than a minute, because he sighs one more time, so extremely weary, before continuing in a much more subdued, almost _ashamed_ tone:

“I don’t like them. I still don’t like them.” He tells them, scoffing, raising his eyebrows and making a wide-eyed expression for a second, as if the mere thought of thinking otherwise makes him winded. “Do they sound stupid? Yeah, they do. Who the hell would want to slow down superheroes, right? Who would have time to make phone calls to ask for permission to enter a country when there’s war raging inside?”

_Who would have time for a phone call._

(Who would, indeed.)

“But you know what?” He huffs. “I get it. Are we insulted because people want some proof that they can trust us? Sure. But they _should_ ask that. You know why? Because _I thought_ , up until a few years ago, that I could trust _SHIELD._ ”

Oh no.

No.

_Is this what this is about?_

Clint turns to Natasha, giving her a fond look. “You never trusted them.”

“I never trust anyone.” Natasha says, and they all know it’s a lie.

“Yeah.” Clint lies back, with a smile on his face. “Much less SHIELD. And you were _right_ , because they were _HYDRA._ And no one knew. No one was looking. All it all became fucked up and SHIELD broke and— Do you have any idea how many people were compromised because of that?”

_Fuck, it is._

No, no, _no._

Steve can’t believe this is happening.

“A friend of mine died.” Clint mutters, sorrowful. “A young agent I recruited. He was undercover in Nepal and his cover was blown when the leak happened. He didn’t have time to make a retreat, and he _died_.”

“Clint…” Natasha softly calls.

“He died because HYDRA was hiding inside our walls and we didn’t know.” Clint sniffs, but there is no sign of tears in his eyes. There is only a fierce, firm conviction, something Steve knows its unbreakable and impossible to change. “So? How do we know we can trust every guy who puts on a mask and a tight suit and calls himself a hero? That’s right, we _can’t_. We know we’re the good guys, but who knows about the other people walking around the US saying they are heroes, as an excuse to blow shit up?”

“They can’t stop _everyone_ just because they’re afraid that _someone_ is lying.” Wanda complaints.

“No, they can’t. But that’s why I’m reading the new versions of the Accords. Because they are _fixing it!_ ” Clint stresses, bitterly.

This is horrible. This is _terrifying,_ how long had Clint been holding this in and not telling them about it? Not telling _Natasha._ The cruel part of Steve’s mind wants to sneer that _this is not new, is it? It’s not the first thing he’s hidden from you_ is bristling, but he pays it no mind, because the rest of him is utterly despising himself, hating the realization that once again, a huge sore subject for one of his teammates has completely escaped his mind, _never even occurred to him_ before it was pointed out. Holy shit, is that— Is there something _wrong_ with him?

How the hell have they never talked about it?

 _How many other things_ have they done that has caused people so much pain?

_How can I make this better? How can I make this right?_

(You can’t.)

(You missed your chance.)

“Look, can we all just admit what no one wants to talk about?” He opens his arms, palms up, encompassing all of them in a gesture that doesn’t feel at all welcoming or solidary, only incredibly shameful. “This is not only about the Accords.”

Please, no, Steve wants to say.

Stop. It’s too much to hear it inside his head, and now he is about to hear it out loud. He’s not sure if he can. Steve is staggering over the edge of madness, between anger so deep it seems to burn him from the inside out, and sadness so heavy it weights like a million tons, like the water around him when he crashed the Valkyrie in the Atlantic. He’s getting defensive, so defensive, he can feel himself shutting down all rational thought in favor of guarding himself for a fight and he _can’t do it_ , he’ll fight them again, he doesn’t want that.

He can’t be reckless, he can’t be weak now.

They can’t fight over this.

_They made a choice, they all made a choice._

(Then _deal with it._ )

“This is about _us._ ” Clint says, almost grinding his teeth for a second. _“_ Us, and who we’re fighting for. We say we’re fighting for the people, for all the little guys, but if we do something bad for it to happen, we’re no better than the villains. That’s not how this works.”

_I just want to look out for the little guy._

(When did you lose yourself?)

_I didn’t._

(You sure?)

(Or is that another _lie_?)

“People suspect us? _Good._ So we do whatever the hell we must so we can prove them wrong. Not right.” Clint proclaims, unyielding. “And if we do something bad anyway, we gotta fix it. We take responsibility.”

_How are you taking responsibility, Steve?_

Clint stops and they all look at him, they look at him and Steve can’t stand it, he knows what they’re waiting for – and he wonders what exactly do they think they’ll do, what are they expecting him to do, _how angry_ do they think he is that he will start a fight over this with Clint, just because he’s speaking his mind?

(You would have, once.)

But he won’t.

He won’t start another war between them.

“Will you sign them?”

Wanda makes a soft, hopeless sound, a _what_ cut off at the middle of a breath, surprised and confused. Natasha frowns so deeply her face must hurt, so many questions dancing behind her eyes, but she won’t say a word. Sam looks like he has completely given up trying to understand what is going on in Steve’s mind.

Steve stares at Clint, who stares back. They both don’t blink.

“I don’t know.” Clint says, in a guarded tone. “Maybe.”

Steve stands up, solemn, ignoring all the worried stares and pleading faces they all make at him, all of them lost amidst so many conflicting ideas and looking at _him_ , of all people, for an answer – isn’t that just the cruelest of jokes? Him, who doesn’t know anything, apparently.

Steve, who just wants this all to end.

“Let us know when you do.” He says.

Not if, when. _When_ , because he already knows how this goes; He’s learned from Scott, there is no need to expect otherwise.

Steve picks up his plate with yesterday’s leftovers, cold and not a single bite taken, and leaves it on the counter before he steps outside the apartment.

He will not fight over this.

They have already fought enough.

 

It’s three in the morning and the room is dark when he asks, in a whisper:

“Did you know about this?”

And from somewhere in the darkness, a soft, shaky reply comes. She sounds like she is holding back a sob.

“I did. But I was ignoring it.”

Even though they are both awake for the entire night, Steve feels lonely all the same.

 

Steve calls Bucky, when he can.

T’Challa has given him the key to a private connection, as he promised he would, and Steve occasionally uses it, so he and Bucky can catch up. He tries not to overdo it, trying to be mindful that Bucky still wants some time for himself, but sometimes he just needs someone to talk to; someone he knows he can say some things to and it won’t end up in a fight. Steve and Bucky have fought over many things through the years they’ve known each other, sometimes to the point of acquiring bruises and split lips, but they’ve never thrown insults or punches when what the other needs is support.

Steve has once let Bucky beat him black and blue so he wouldn’t fight back. Steve doesn’t trust anyone the way he trusts Bucky. He _needs_ someone he can trust right now.

Bucky seems to really enjoy Wakanda. Usually when Steve calls, Bucky is the one doing most of the talking now. Funny thing, that this would be the case. As the days go by, as Steve’s life starts looking bleaker and greyer, Bucky’s life seems to be slowly regaining its spark, its color and its hope, and he is dazzled by all the incredible things princess Shuri shows him every day. He was always the one fascinated by the promises of the future, after all, not Steve. He had been the one to suggest they’d go to Stark Expo back in—

( _My father._ )

(He killed my father.)

( _My father made that shield!_ )

No, no, he won’t go down that path. Not now. Not today.

Tonight, when Steve calls him, all he wants is for Bucky to ramble about Wakanda’s marvelous tech and the shenanigans of the village’s kids, to the his mind out of the spiral of doubt that is trying to sweep Steve off the ground and throw him into the wind, trying to ground himself in the comfort that he has done something good, that Bucky is safe and happy and that’s all Steve needs to worry about.

(But it’s not.)

But it’s not.

That’s what he’s hoping for, when he calls Bucky. He doesn’t say it, and he doesn’t ask, but over and over again, its what has happened in the past.

He thinks it’ll happen again, this time.

“Hey.” Bucky mutters, when he picks up the call. “So. T’Challa told me one of you guys signed the Accords.”

(Oh, _Captain._ )

He is wrong.

 

(Cap.)

No.

(Rogers.)

No.

( _Steve._ )

_No._

_Stop it._

(I’m not leaving.)

(You know that.)

(Not until you face me.)

(I’m not leaving.)

 

Steve has been feeling… lonely, these days.

A strange type of loneliness. A loneliness that comes solely from within, no matter how many people are in the room, as if now that all the jitters he felt months ago have finally drained away, he was just left _hollow._ A whole new different type of hollow; Not the kind he felt before when he first woke up, when all he could feel was that sour, vile sensation of abandonment, of a missed chance, of being left behind—

No. _Another_ type of hollow.

He’s afraid to move. He honestly is, he is _afraid_ , because there is so much he couldn’t predict, so much that has happened outside of his control and he had to stand there and _watch_ , and it is slowly driving him insane, ebbing away all the fight and all the anger and all the drive, and leaving him… with this. Which is ridiculous, because how can someone be hollow in two different ways? How can the hole inside his chest ache in two distinct beats, two wavelengths, one that stings sharp and one that burns slow? And he can’t make it stop, because once again, _for the second time_ , the window has been closed and he _lost his chance_ , and he can’t take it back. Once again, the fragile bonds that kept him grounded snapped, this time by his own hand, and all he has left are these burned ropes and burning bridges, and nothing else.

After the decision is made, what can he do?

What can he do, besides live with it?

(Besides being _destroyed_ by it?)

How can he know what he should do next, when he feels like he has only half of the information? Sometimes, not even that? How— Fuck, he sounds so _arrogant_ , but how could he have known there was so much going on besides what he could see? He… He acted like he always did. He assessed the biggest threat, he made a quick call, he gritted his teeth and did what he had to do. That’s what the soldier inside him commands him to do.

_The mission takes precedence. Sometimes, above everything else._

(But it’s not the during that’s the problem.)

_It’s the after._

And now it’s after. Now, it is no longer in his hands.

(You thought the world you catch on fire.)

(It didn’t.)

( _We_ did.)

(And now what?)

All he has left are his thoughts. He has his team, but Steve is pushing them away, he can _physically_ feel the way he is getting more and more distant from them, as they come around and make all these decisions and snap at him with feelings he didn’t even imagine they would have. This kind of life they have, it had never allowed so much down time for him to notice how deeply _scarred_ all of them are. They’d just… jump from one mission to another, the team formation always shifting, always in a time restraint, always with adrenaline running so high they cold barely feel anything else; How could they possibly get comfortable with each other? How could he have _known_ them, actually known them, as more than his co-workers? More than his _soldiers_?

Every time they do something he can’t predict, a decision he cannot agree with, a comment he cannot make better, he becomes more and more aware of how _little_ he actually knows his team. He thought of them as his friends, he really did. He told himself they were a family. Hell, he said so in his letter to Tony, trying to give him – and himself – at least some semblance of comfort, some gentleness to ease the blow of the fight, a sweet reminder that _they are stronger than their differences,_ they are _family_ , and they will get over this.

But they are all getting him off guard. They are all fighting him. They are making him question himself, and he can’t stop hearing Tony’s voice in his head, always in his head, but never on the phone, the phone is always silent, and Steve doesn’t know what to do—!

Should he try calling him? Sending another message? A longer one, one that is not just his name and so many unspoken feelings he didn’t know how to properly spell out, but he could try, because he promised Natasha he’d _try_.

He can’t stop wondering about it now. He can’t. There is so much—

The thought of the Accords now makes his skin crawl.

Clint’s words still ring fresh on his mind, a worry that he had pushed far back into forgotten corners of his psyche now out in the open and they are raw and bleeding and hurting, and Steve doesn’t dare to touch them, doesn’t want to give them any more power over him – but they take it anyway, the flood over his attempts of deflection with no trouble at all, drowning him in the inevitability of his own haunting.

How long has it been, since he last thought of the fall of SHIELD?

Too long, obviously. Far, far too long.

He can remember, crystal-clear, the tone of Natasha’s words cutting through the warm, humid air of Wakanda, at the night of their fight, her raging defiance when she shouted in his face _what are you doing to help the people we couldn’t save?_ All this time, all those months thinking about that question, and Steve doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t have an answer and _damn, shit—_ he has the _proof_ that he didn’t do anything, Clint has just dug it up from Steve’s graveyard of unspoken words, has just flaunted in his face how useless he has been in making amends for all the problems they have caused when they tried to help.

Steve will not say he regrets it. He will not. Steve has been fighting HYDRA for over seventy years, he will not apologize for putting down Nazis and saving millions of being shot by giant floating machine-guns—

The problem is—

Steve wants to. He wants to apologize.

Because just like he can remember Natasha’s resentful stare and her harsh, accusatory voice, he can also remember her _smug_ , _overconfident_ smile, as she sat in front of a panel of men who threatened to put her in jail, and she told them:

_You won’t do that. Because you need us._

How is that ok? Goddammit, how could he ever think that was ok? They had killed people when they leaked all those SHIELD files. _Good people_. And right after they did it, they were _snobbish._ They destroyed HYDRA, they did what they had to do, but how many others had lost their lives when they did it, and why hadn’t no one _mentioned_ that, when it happened?

When had Steve become conniving with that?

How— How did he lose sight of _we don’t trade lives_ so easily?

He had always tried so hard. He had always thought he had been doing all he could to save all the innocents he could. When had he started to be ok with _sacrificing_ anything other than himself for a greater cause?

(I told you.)

( _Liar._ )

Fuck, he’ll have to apologize to Clint later. He acted like an asshole, left him there with the others and shut him off, when all Clint was doing was finally, _finally_ letting them all in and learning about his insecurities. Clint probably thinks Steve is trying to pull something, acting like a disappointed father when their kid argues back and refuses to see reason.

That’s not it.

Steve gets it. He gets why Clint will sign it.

He’s not angry. He’s not disappointed in Clint. He’s only disappointed in himself.

(That’s why they exist.)

(The Accords.)

(Because we’re _dangerous_.)

Steve thinks about Natasha, too _. Oh God, Natasha._ Natasha had been there, right beside him, and so had Sam. They had all agreed to it. It had been a necessary evil, it had to be done, or else HYDRA would’ve won, but what have they done to help those who they failed when they leaked those files, all the agents out there that had been compromised, all the people they accidentally _killed_ without even knowing?

 _You are ignoring it,_ Natasha had said. Natasha had _screamed_ in his face.

And she’d been right.

Steve has thought about their fights every single day; and like the idiot he is, he thought it was all about the Accords. How _ignorant_ he had been.

He now realizes why the Accords exist. Not the Accords Ross tried to showcase, no – the Accords that king T’Chaka proposed, the Accords meant to make justice for the seven Wakandans they had killed in Lagos, even if just by accident. Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? It’s _always_ an accident. Their intentions might be noble but they still hurt those who pay the price, they might be sacrificing themselves but they _are not the only ones._

Steve can’t be so heartless as to fault the civilians for wanting justice for their lost loved ones. The angry, bitter part of him wants him to, but he won’t. He won’t be such a hypocrite. People are mourning, they are confused and they are angry and… and Steve _ignored_ them, for the sake of his mission.

( _You don’t deserve that shield!_ )

But Steve doesn’t want a shield.

He only wants to _help._

The Accords are still a sore subject for him, and he fears they always will be. A part of him hoped, even if silently and secretly, that the Accords would just fall apart after they left, that the world would realize on its own how much the Avengers are needed and how terrible it would be to keep them trapped. How petty and childish of him; but he did wish for it, even if he’d never said it to another soul.

Foolishly, he thought someday everyone would come around and realize they were wrong. That Steve only wanted to do the right thing, and they would understand, and all this mess could be left behind, and they would all start over.

But he should’ve known it wouldn’t. Tony would never allow it. Neither would Ross or the UN, of course, but _Tony_ was the only one Steve was sure would keep pushing, because that’s what he did. Steve doesn’t even know how he can be so sure of that, when all he can think about lately is how _little_ he knows of his teammates – or… former teammates, he supposes –, but something in him is _completely_ sure that he is right about Tony in this matter.

Not because Tony is petty or vengeful. No. There is no bitterness in Steve’s heart when he thinks about it. It’s just… how it is. It’s Tony’s nature. He would keep going because he actually believes in the Accords, he has a vision of accountability that he will do anything to see it through, whatever Ross or the UN try to push into his hands, and he will do it even if he only has the support of half of the team.

(Less than half.)

(You took Romanov.)

(T’Challa literally helped you escape.)

(And Vision is breaking the Accords.)

(So who do I have left, really?)

_God, what a fucking mess._

There it is again, this funny, cruel irony, when Steve realizes that he is now so eager to think about the Accords just so he can avoid thinking about anything else. _One thing at a time_ , he tells himself. _Define the priority, assess the danger, find the solution_.

The way of the soldier.

He tells himself the Accords are the priority now. Until Scott’s fate is decided, truly decided, the Accords are the main threat.

(There’s nothing you can do.)

(That’s not the problem, Cap.)

(You know it isn’t.)

(Why are you ignoring the real problem here?)

 _The Accords are the problem_.

(Don’t bullshit me, Rogers.)

 _Fuck_. Steve’s hands dart up to grasp at the strands of his hair, so fast that the tug is harsh and painful, shooting sparks of pain all the way through his scalp and stinging hotly on his skin. He can hear Tony’s voice so clearly, echoing on the walls of the bunker, and he _doesn’t want to think about it anymore._

(The Accords are _not_ the problem.)

(Not anymore.)

(I don’t care about them. T’Challa broke them. Natasha broke them.)

(Vision broke them.)

( _I_ broke them.)

Steve sucks in a harsh breath, painful and dry, and it sounds like a goddamn sob.

_You did, Tony._

(I broke them to go to you.)

_I know you did, Tony._

(The _least_ you could do is talk to me about it.)

_We tried, Tony._

_We already tried that._

(That’s not _true!_ )

(I don’t hate you because of the Accords!)

(I hate you because you **_lied_** _!_ )

God, _fuck— Does he?_

Does Tony hate him now?

He might.

What would Steve do, if he did?

He wants to believe that the reason Tony hasn’t called is because he isn’t ready. Maybe he’s still angry – and that’s fine, Steve will take anger. He will take Tony’s screams and insults, if that means Tony will _speak_ to him. Maybe Tony is trying to prove a point. Tony can be like that, sometimes. Maybe won’t call until Scott’s sentence has been reduced or completely abolished, just so he can rub it in Steve’s face. _You see, Cap? Safeguards_ , he can almost hear him say. Maybe it’s Tony’s pride, refusing to let him call, to let him show any ounce of what he must feel like is vulnerability, in asking for Steve’s help.

Steve will take any of these things.

Because if Tony isn’t keeping silent because of the Accords…

Then it is all about Siberia.

(If.)

(What a funny guy you are, Rogers.)

(I _broke_ the Accords once for you.)

(I’d have no problem doing it again.)

(So _why don’t I_?)

( _Take a guess._ )

Steve feels hollow.

He rubs his hands over his face, as if he could wipe away the exhaustion with his fingers – and the lack of a weight on his forearm is so disconcerting he almost feels like he is missing a limb.

No shield.

No calls.

Steve has _nothing._

 

Vision returns, as he promised.

“I trust you’ve seen the news of Mr. Lang’s trial.” Is what he says after his polite greetings, all good-hearted words and kind demeanor, Wanda immediately by his side with a smile on her face.

“We have.” Steve answers, stiff and tense, as he always is.

“According to Mr. Lang’s lawyer, this is good news.” Vision informs. “The possibility of imprisonment in the Raft has been completely discarded, and there is still a chance of making an appeal to reduce the sentence, possibly even request a house arrest. We are very sure that the outcome can be even more positive, with some long-term work in Mr. Lang’s case.”

“Is that because he’s not an Avenger?” Sam questions worriedly.

“Partially.” Vision concedes. “Mr. Lang has no previous history of destruction of property in large scale, and none in international scale. And as he is also not associated with the Avengers Initiative, he has no formal obligation to be a part of international operations in the future; Which means that most of what the Sokovia Accords entail does not actually apply to him.”

“And the parts that do?” Clint asks, eyes sharp and voice low.

Vision makes a pause and stares back at Clint, pensive.

“As a self-managing hero, the only problem Mr. Lang now faces is the lack of a suit. As long as he keeps himself only inside the United States territory, there will be no further restraint over his ability to act as Ant-Man other than only being able to do so after the has the permission of Judge Talbot.”

“ _What?”_ Wanda exhales, as if that is unbelievable.

_Because it is. It is._

_How is that possible?_

_How is it that easy?_

“Why is the suit a problem?” Natasha then joins in the inquiry, her brows furrowed in elegant confusion.

“We don’t know where it is.” Vision confesses.

“Scott hid it.” Sam interrupts, and they all stop to look at him, surprised. “When we were at the airport, we all still had our suits and weapons, and we had no time to hide them. Scott had. He took off the suit and hid it somewhere, and when the Germans came to arrest us he was the only one without a suit.”

“The Ant-Man suit is not government property.” Vision explains, continuing his line of logic with this new information he has just received. “It has been designed by and still belongs to Pym Technologies - to Dr. Hank Pym, to be more precise. Being so, Dr. Pym is Mr. Lang’s primary benefactor. Without the original suit, Dr. Pym would have to provide a new one to Mr. Lang, for him to be able to continue to pose as Ant-Man. Unfortunately, Pym Technologies has publicly declared they no longer will have any association with Mr. Lang.”

Clint and Sam let out indignant sounds of protest.

“Dr. Pym himself informed the media of the fact.” Vision explains, as if to reassure them. “It wasn’t a decision made by the Accords committee or by Secretary Ross in any form. Pym Technologies has removed its endorsement of Mr. Lang until further notice, although there are rumors of another suit being build. Not for Mr. Lang… but for Dr. Pym daughter, Dr. Van Dyne.”

“Everyone is a superhero, these days.” Clint mildly complains, huffing.

“We _are_ in short supply, have been for almost two years now.” Vision says, pointedly looking at Clint. His tone is so leveled Steve isn’t sure if it’s meant to be a joke or an accusation, but it makes him feel _shitty_ all the same, and for a second he is glad Vision is directing his gaze at Clint, not at him.

“Did you just—?” Clint splutters, but gives up halfway and turns around, going to the kitchen to raid the fridge and pretend the last few seconds hadn’t happened.

Vision watches him put some distance between them, a look that can almost be described as uneasy on his face, when Wanda steps a little closer and puts her hand on his arm, leaning forward so she can whisper something right by his ear. Her voice is so low and so soft not even Steve can hear what she says, even with his enhanced hearing.

“We have all reason to believe the outcome of Mr. Lang’s trial will be a positive one.” Vision finally concludes, with only a slight tilt of enthusiasm in his voice, a quiet, but present thing, the hopeful expectation Steve so desperately wants to believe in. “The judgment might have been passed, but the sentence is not permanent. As soon as possible, Mr. Lang will be able to request an appeal for a reduction of his sentence, and possibly, he will be able to return to his normal life, before the Ant-Man was ever a concern for him.”

“A bit too late for that.” Clint chuckles darkly, mockery tainting his tone. “This kind of life? You don’t stop once you start. It _latches._ ”

_Like war._

Steve averts his gaze to the floor, trying to be discrete with the way he shuts his eyes tight and groans, forcing the invasive thoughts away with such force he feels physical pain.  

“We will not stop Mr. Lang from being a hero, if he wishes to continue to be one.” Vision innocently counters, as if Clint has just made a preposterous accusation. As if he – or anyone – would try to stop Scott from doing whatever he wants. Steve can’t help but question if this is actually true, if he can honestly believe this, that the Accords will not put Scott on a leash as they did to Wanda; or if this is just Vision’s innocence, his lack of understanding of the human nuances and deceits to be able to tell a lie from a truth. He thinks he is being unfair, but he cannot help it.

“What’s he gonna do without a suit?” Sam gives a questioning shrug, his arms crossed and his stance guarded; but his voice calm and curious.

“Many heroes are heroes with much less.” Vision says cryptically. “Mr. Lang may come across as a… peculiar figure, but he is a man with his own set of skills and capabilities. If a man such as him decides to create his own suit, we have no reason to stop him. If he manages to gain the favor of Pym Technologies back and doing so, obtain another suit, we have no reason to stop him. The only way we will stop him is if Mr. Lang somehow trespasses a law, or a _border_ , he has no permission to trespass. Besides that, for all intents and purposes, he will be a free man.”

_Just a man, doing the right thing because he chose to do it._

_And they will not stop him._

Vision takes in all of their reactions, one by one, and although his face remains impassive, the gears in his head turn furiously as he does so, and Steve can’t even begin to imagine what sort of conclusion he is able to draw from that.

“Heroes have not been turned into villains.” Vision says solemnly, wisely, like a leader trying to keep his followers from collapsing into despair. Steve can recognize the tone, the stance, the look; He is the one who is usually on the other side of this interaction, taking the front, trying to inspire hope even when all seems lost. He is not sure how he should react when he is the listener, not the preacher.

All he knows is that he hears the words and he prays that they are true, because he has no other option if they prove themselves to be false.

“The world still cares for you.” Vision says, fondly. “But they are afraid. This is the first step to help them overcome that fear. In time, this divide between us will be destroyed. But we have to be patient, and be willing to compromise, on both sides, when the time comes.”

He’s looking at him. Steve knows. He won’t raise his eyes and he won’t turn his head, but he _feels_ the weight of Vision’s unhuman gaze on his face, his analytical, piercing eyes watching Steve’s every move, because he knows that those words struck Steve right in his weakest spot, right at the heart of all of Steve’s fears.

Steve doesn’t look back. The tick in his jaw hurts from the pure force he uses when he clenches his teeth, almost biting his tongue on purpose to keep himself quiet, his heart beating a wild, frantic rhythm inside his chest.

_Compromise._

Steve has made a promise. He promised he would try.

But he wonders if the opportunity will ever come; and if it does, if he will be courageous enough to take it.

They all seem to be lost in thought, when a quiet, awkward sound brings them all back to the present, all eyes turning to Wanda as she steps a little closer to Vision. She looks awkward, but determined, and she steals a glance at Vision beside her before she clears her throat gently and speaks:

“Do you mind if Viz and I go out for a moment?” She asks, a little subdued. “We won’t be long.”

Something in that sentence strikes Steve as odd. He can’t quite precisely say what it is – he only knows it makes him feel on _edge._

_What is happening?_

_What is happening to us?_

They all pause uncomfortably, unsure of what to say, when Clint suddenly takes the initiative and clears his throat to reply, “Yeah, sure. Go ahead.”

Nodding, Wanda places a hand on Vision’s arm and gently guides him outside, both of them inclining their head towards one another, talking in hushed tones until they step out of the apartment. The door closes slowly behind them, leaving them all staring at nothing once they are gone.

_Gone._

“So that’s how it is.” Sam comments, more to himself than for all of them, but it oud enough for them to hear. He sounds defeated.

Yeah.

Scott’s gone. Soon, so will Clint. Wanda as well, even if for a different reason, might be joining them.

Yeah, Steve thinks mournfully.

_That’s how it is._

He is not the only one who has bad days.

“Do you think you will ever sign them?” Bucky asks, and Steve is glad that he opted for an audio call tonight, not a video one, because he doesn’t know what his face looks like when Bucky asks him that. His voice is apprehensive, almost regretful, and Steve feels guilty enough without seeing the proof of Bucky’s hesitation in his face.

“Why do you ask?” Steve croaks mournfully, even though he already knows the answer.

“Nothing. I’m just… asking.” Bucky says, and they both know it’s not true. “I mean… I’m safe here. I’m not going anywhere. You could… You could go back, and I’d stay here. Maybe you can work something out if I’m not in the way.”

“You’re _not_ in the way, Buck.” Steve reassures, even though words are never good enough for Bucky when he is like this. Steve’s words have never, ever done justice to his actions.

But he cannot act anymore.

And his words have never been as effective as his actions.

“I’m saying you could work something out.” Bucky insists, ignoring Steve’s comment. “You’re smart, Stevie. If anyone asks where I am, I’m sure you can find something to distract them.”

“I’m not going back while the Accords—”

“Are like that, I know.” Bucky interrupts, with a small laugh. “But people are signing them, aren’t they? Maybe they’ll be fine soon. And you can sign them.”

The childish, petty part of Steve almost wants to make a jab at Bucky, something ridiculous like _you’re just trying to throw me to the wolves, you punk_ , but before he can even think about doing it, he stops. This is the kind of joke Steve would do back in the day, teasing Bucky relentlessly with very little care if he would offend him or not, but Steve rarely feels the impulse to do such a thing now. He doesn’t want to sound like he is coddling Bucky or something equally ridiculous as that, but…

But Steve is more careful, now. There is a lot about Bucky he doesn’t know anymore. And a lot of it involves a deep, encasing feeling of _guilt_ , a sense of shame he cannot control and should not have at all, because it is all the Winter Soldier’s fault, not his.

And the guilt of thinking he has done something terrible to Steve. As if it’s his fault that Steve is here, a fugitive, as if he had no other choice. That’s not true. Steve _chose_ this. He chose this, and he tries to remind Bucky, as much as he reminds himself, that this is the path he picked, and he will not regret it. Bucky doesn’t seem to understand that.

But Steve has to learn how to navigate through that guilt. Bucky doesn’t listen when Steve says it wasn’t his fault. Bucky doesn’t believe him.

As Wanda didn’t believe him.

“You don’t have to worry about that.” Steve assures, his voice filled with a strong sense of confidence he doesn’t feel. “I know what I’m doing.”

There is no use trying to subdue Bucky’s guilt by force.

Steve can barely manage his own.

 

Steve goes to bed uneasy, in the middle of the night. It’s the first time in three days he’ll try to sleep.

Three hours later he jolts awake, breath stuttering and heart drumming inside his chest, sweat making his hair stick to his nape, hands shaking uncontrollably. For a second, he doesn’t know where he is; All he knows is that the sun is rising but all he feels is cold, not a single ounce of warmth, and he feels so tired he is sick.

His comm is ringing. It’s on top of the table, and Steve has to get up and reach for it with his trembling fingers, and the feel of the cold hardwood floor beneath his feet is enough to make him shiver, from head to toe.

He picks up the call and says hello. He sounds like a dying man.

“Cap.” Clint’s voice comes through the comms, quiet, quieter than Steve has ever heard it. The ever-present tone of amusement and nonchalance is missing today, replaced by a thoughtful seriousness, and maybe, just maybe, a hint of sadness, a melancholy that translates itself in calmness. Steve waits for what comes next.

He already _knows_ what it’ll be.

“I’m gonna sign them.”

 _There it is_ , the mocking voice inside his head says.

Steve closes his eyes, slowly.

He wants to _scream_.

“Ok.” Steve says, because what else there is to say, really? “Does Wanda know?”

“She does.” Clint assures, completely unaware of the mental breakdown Steve is going through. He can’t hear it in his voice. Or maybe he can, but he doesn’t identify it as such, his own mind lost in too many conflicting thoughts to be able to catch on the way Steve’s voice cracks when he speaks. “It’s fine. But if you could come by tomorrow, it would be better. We kinda need to talk about some stuff.”

“Ok.” Steve repeats, numbly— before something else, completely unexpected, bursts out of his lips in a rush, half panicked and half painful, a throb low and deep inside his belly that makes his stomach hurt. “Do you blame me?”

Clint makes a noise on the other side of the call, something Steve can’t exactly describe. “What?”

“For SHIELD. And the mess with the Accords.” Steve explains, curtly. “Do you blame me?”

“No.” Clint says, and he sounds like he means it. “I blame all of us. We were all there.”

That doesn’t make him feel any better, but he is not sure if that was what Clint was trying to do at all. He feels like it wasn’t. He was simply stating a fact, a fact that he has accepted after many years agonizing over it, and now, he has finally conceded it a drawn-out, reluctant defeat.

Steve takes in a deep breath and tries to reign in all the conflicting emotions that run through him at that very second, all the words that are stuck inside his throat and he can’t let out. Somewhere deep inside of him, he wants to argue. He wants to assure Clint of their good intentions, comfort him by saying they did what they had to do, and he should be strong and move forward. But he cannot. Those words, this speech, is the same speech he gives over and over and over again and by now, even to his own ears, it sounds irredeemably fake. After all, isn’t that what landed them in this situation in the first place? Isn’t the moving forward without looking back the very reason why no one wants them to return?

Steve will not stop Clint, if this is what Clint thinks he must do in order to make his amends.

Steve only wishes he could do the same.

“It’s cool if you don’t want to sign them, Cap. I’m not angry about that.” Clint says in a lighter tone, probably concerned with the lack of a proper response from Steve. “I understand. You have much more at stake than I do. Not trying to be an asshole or anything, but you don’t have much more than the Avengers now, do you? It sucks.”

Steve honestly laughs a little, because Clint has no way with words at all but _yes_ , it _sucks_.

“I get it. You don’t wanna lose it. Leading the team means a lot to you.” _It does, but that’s not it_ , Steve wants to say, but he doesn’t. Because he can’t explain it. He doesn’t fully understand it. More than teamwork, he misses having them all here, he misses feeling at ease, he misses _home_.

“Yes.” It’s all he can say, because he has no other words to describe whatever the hell is this mess growing inside of him like a volcano about to explode.

“So wait a while.” Clint suggests. “Keep doing what you’re doing. Help people when you can. Just… Just remember to give it some thought, alright? They might not be so bad, someday. I know you pretty much hate the entire thing on principle, but sometimes we gotta agree to some stupid accord so we can do our job, you know? It’s not about the politics. It’s about the people.”

“I know.” Steve says, disheartened. “So I guess I’ll have to trust Tony with them, won’t I?”

Clint barks out a laugh, full and good-spirited, as if Steve has just told a very good joke completely out of the blue.

(Yeah, _hilarious._ )

(As if you’d ever trust me with anything.)

“I guess you will.” Clint replies amusedly, almost crooning. “Trust Stark on this one. I said some nasty shit for him when we were on the Raft, but you know what? The guy is just a softie. We all know he had something to do with the way Scott got off so easy on the trial, they wouldn’t have done it otherwise. And I remember that stuff Vision mentioned about the Stark Industries legal team.  It might have been a slip, but I caught it.”

So had Steve.

And he hasn’t forgotten, since it happened.

“You’ll go home someday, Cap.” Clint assures him. “Just you wait.”

“Good luck with the Accords, Clint.” Steve offers him, as an assurance for Clint and as a reprimand to himself, to remind himself he should keep quiet and let Clint choose whatever he decides is best for himself and his family. This is his goodbye. Clint says his and hangs up, and Steve is left in a dark, empty room with only the sound of the breeze outside for company, the slowly rising rays of the sun, and the terrible, _inescapable_ cold that chills him to the bone and finds in there a home, to never leave him again.

Just like the weight of his years, like the constant exhaustion in his eyes, the sting on his scalp, Steve will have to live with it now. Until, someday, he makes this right.

He considers going back to bed; but still hears the sound of vibranium crushing glass, loud, horrible, _vile_ , echoing inside his dreams.

So he doesn’t sleep.

Even thought he knows his nightmares will follow him through the day anyway.

 

( _Rogers._ )

(You _coward_ , come here and _face me!_ )

 

Guilt is strange.

It makes us do _unspeakable things._

 

(Give me this!)

(You took the truth from me once, don’t you dare hide it again!)

( ** _Rogers_** _!_ )

 

There is something he’s been thinking about.

He tells himself it’s about the Accords - and in some ways, it is. It is, because none of it is actually isolated, the problems just meshing together like paints spilled across the table, muddy colors and cold water dripping over the corners, staining everything they touch. Exactly like that, they spill over the corners of the barriers he puts up, overflowing like a dam too full, drowning everything else until all he can see is the flood.

It started somewhere around his fight with Natasha. Hell, it might’ve started even earlier than that and he didn’t realize, because he was so angry and so on edge it simply hadn’t occurred to him—

And now he’s here, and the evidence is staring right at his face, daring him to come forward and face it. For all his guessing, all his assumptions, the culminations of their choices have brought them here, to this point in time, where _nothing_ is what it seemed, and he realized all he has done is much worse than he thought.

He’s been thinking about _what if_.

(What if you had signed?)

(What if I hadn’t?)

(What if?)

(What if?)

( _What if?_ )

Steve is not one to dwell on such matters, usually. Truth be told, he’s probably the one who avoids thinking about it the most, because after he’s woken up, everything he does is to avoid looking backwards too much, fearing he might get lost in his own head if he allows himself to miss it. It’s exactly what he did at that night at the bar, so many years – _decades_ – ago, when he tried to drown his sorrows in alcohol after Bucky fell off the train. All the while, every glass he took and every drop he swallowed, the only thing he could think about is _I could have done more_ , and it had been one of the most miserable nights of his life.

He should’ve done something else. He should’ve reached him. He should’ve done _more._

So many things he should’ve done, to stop his best friend from falling to his death.

It was hell on earth. Steve had spent that entire night wanting to knock himself out cold, just so he could stop thinking, could stop his heart from hurting, and thanks to the serum it was completely useless. It all felt useless. So the step he took next was the one that defined everything; The one where he chose to stop looking back, reckless and unyielding, refusing to bend or be swayed, carrying his mission to the end even if it _killed_ him.

In the end, it didn’t.

But it was just a coincidence, because it should have.

Now, as it is with many other things, the world kept spinning and— completely caught him off guard once again. Now, he knows Bucky is still alive. Now, he has already carved into his system that he can’t look back, because his type of life doesn’t allow for that kind of weakness, that kind of regret, and it’s too hard for him to lose that habit. Now, it’s not merely a coincidence; It’s the actions and the choices of other people that are moving the story along, moving them away from that point in time where everything changed, and the farther away they get from that point, the stranger it seems, the deeper it cuts, the more hopeless it feels.

He really shouldn’t waste his time thinking about what if’s, but he is. Because… Because look at how his last months have been. Christ, how could he not second guess himself? He fought against the Accords believing with his entire being that they would be the end of the Avengers. But the Avengers have completely fallen apart, and the Accords are still standing. At the time, that would’ve been his worst nightmare— But… Scott has surrendered, and he’s fine. As fine as it can be expected, for a fugitive. He’ll be in prison, but a normal prison, and he will have rights to visits from his daughter and friends, he’ll have the chance for a reduction of sentence, he’ll have _his rights respected._ That’s… Steve hadn’t thought this could happen. Even more so after Leipzig. This is a glaring, ugly, enormous contradiction to his version of things, a gigantic hole in his argument against the Accords, and… What can he do?

It is what it is. He supposes he should be glad he has already gotten this particular fight with Natasha out of the way, because how could he jump back from _this_?

Steve will argue with them no more. He understands. He finally, _finally_ understands. This is a war he cannot win, because there is no way to win. Steve has prioritized his mission many times, and all those times, he did it because he believed he was saving people. He isn’t wrong about that. But _that_ doesn’t fix everything else.

He knows.

He is not ignoring it anymore.

The soldier in him… Fuck, maybe _the man of the forties_ in him insists that the safest hands are their own. Really ironic that this piece of him might play a part in this, considering that he had affirmed, with such certainty, that this man had died in the ice. That someone else came out. Hell, maybe he did. Maybe this is the man he became, the man who refused to back down even worse than before, the man who had his everything, the good _and the bad_ , enhanced by the serum in his veins.

Steve had once thought his stubbornness was one of his qualities.

But now that stubbornness had made people afraid of him, he doesn’t know if it really is.

Steve tells himself he will let it go. He will not fight about it. He will not try to stop his teammates who choose to sign them, even if he cannot agree with the Accords still. Steve will still be hiding, because he didn’t back down when he was asked, and he still won’t back down now. He will fight, when he can. But he won’t let anyone get hurt. No more trading lives. And despite the fact that he already is trespassing, that he already is inside a country who doesn’t want him here, he will wait and pray, every single day, until the day the people ask him to come back.

But he won’t argue about them anymore. He is done with it.

(Really?)

But at the same time…

(There it is, I knew it.)

There is another matter.

_Vision._

Out of all the people who stood by the Accords, the one he least expected to break them would be Vision. Natasha had broken them, but who in the world can make Natasha do anything she doesn’t want to? She comes and goes as she pleases. And although Steve knows he doesn’t really understand why she’s here – she can say she wants to help, but what exactly does she think he needs help with? Not that he’s not glad she’s here, but _why_ is she here? -, the bottom line is that she broke them. T’Challa broke them too. As soon as he helped Steve and Bucky escape Siberia, he turned his back on the Accords, at least for a little while. He’s still advocating for them, he is still working with them, with _Tony_ , to make the Accords stronger, but every time he picks up Steve’s calls, every second he allows Bucky to live in secrecy inside Wakanda, he is betraying the Accords.

And Tony broke them too. Natasha made sure Steve remembered that. The very presence of Tony in that bunker, the fact that he came to them, weapons lowered, voice soft, open heart— he broke the Accords. Because he knew Bucky hadn’t been the one to blow up the UN conference in Vienna. He came to make things right.

He came for accountability. Steve’s mind is still going haywire with that fact, trying to figure out what it had _meant_ , always coming up short.

It sounds heavy now, that word. _Accountability._ It was all that it came down to, isn’t it? Steve’s version, Tony’s version, they all had different ideas of what they should do to make things right after they made a mistake. Steve will no longer argue about the Accords, but he will argue about this, because _this_ goes beyond the Accords. It goes much farther down the line, following a trail that leaves goddamn _footprints_ in his mind, following him back home, into his house, into his bed, into his _dreams._

Accountability means being held responsible for one’s mistakes. Steve is aware of the definition. But it also means doing whatever is possible, in the most honest way possible, to help those who had been hurt by that mistake.

Steve realizes he has been lacking on that department.

(Don’t you say?)

And he has to make things right. But that means… That means he has to talk about it.

Because if the Accords are not the thing that are keeping them apart.

Steve, soon enough, will have to face _the real reason_ why he is so goddamned afraid of the idea of coming back home.

(And will you?)

(Will you finally think about it?)

Yes.

He will.

_Soon._

(Soon.)

(Alright.)

(Let me know when you’re done lying to yourself, Rogers.)

Steve isn’t sure if he’ll ever be able to sign them.

He wants to make amends for everything he broke, he does.

But what about the things he broke he _cannot_ fix with a simple signature?

 

_Will you forgive me, one day?_

(Depends.)

(Are you _sorry?_ )

_Yes._

 

( _Liar._ )

 

(Steve gets so into his own head he almost forgets to count.)

(But the world will not allow him to forget.)

(The world will not allow him to run.)

 

To his surprise, Clint tells him that Vision will stay around for a couple of days. When that happens, Steve realizes that Clint was right, and Vision _is_ taking advantage of the distraction of the press to slip away from the Compound and meet them – this time, using Scott’s trial as a reason to stop by; And its prolonged presence in the media to stay for a longer span of time, and have some more time with Wanda and the rest of them.

To be honest, it’s a level of craftiness Steve hadn’t expected from Vision. But then, Steve hadn’t expected Vision to ever look at Wanda in the way he does, so fond and devoted and happy and _human_ ¸ so what does he know?

Steve has no problem with Vision’s presence. Not at all. In fact, he is kind of glad he is here, because that means Wanda is happy, that means that they might not be as broken as Steve fears they are, and he takes this as a small comfort in his already too beaten up heart.

That being said, Vision being here does pose a little problem; Because Steve wants to talk to Wanda, about Clint leaving, about her powers, about _what the hell is going on_ between her and Vision, about so many other things he can’t even count them all. She is no child, he knows, he understands, but he can’t help but feel anxious, and he wants to make sure she is okay. There is nothing wrong with that, he tells himself. All he is asking for is a couple of seconds alone with her, just so she won’t feel embarrassed by talking about this in front of Vision, and all of Steve’s doubt would be put at rest.

But in the end, once again, the world is not kind.

Because before Steve can catch Wanda alone, he is found by Vision; and he is suddenly reminded of one thing he tried very, very hard to forget.

 _Soon,_ he told himself.

What a cruel idea.

How ironic that _soon_ would come so quickly.

“Captain Rogers.” Is what Vision says, when he lays a hand on his shoulder to make him turn, looking at him with his deep, unreadable eyes. “I have some news for you. About Mr. Stark’s Arc Reactor.”

 

(The world is not kind.)

(It never is.)

 

Suddenly, Steve feels physically unable to speak. Something inside him begs him to cause a distraction, to question where Wanda is, why is Vision staying, for how long, and what exactly does it mean. That part of him is screaming, trying to get away as quickly as it can, shutting down all of its attention and raising its walls, trying futilely to keep Steve’s heart unaware, safe and protected in its ignorance, until time passes, and he just _forgets._

But he can’t forget this. It’s useless to even try.

The rest of him, everything else he is, all of him that is a soldier and a hopeless man, stands very still and waits for what’s to come the same way a prisoner waits for his sentence. The horrid possibility of being about to receive a confirmation of his worst fears, a final proof that he truly is the monster so many people have accused him to be, that… that _Ultron_ accused him to be, and he cannot find the strength to move and escape from it, after so many months doing exactly that.

He can’t, because now he is bare, he is raw and he is hollow, he is _losing everything_ and _everyone_ , he is questioning every single step he has taken until he got here, and he needs to _know_ if there is any other fatal mistake he missed in his journey. Another terrible failure he just pushed behind a closed door and never glanced at twice, another _accident_ that almost cost a life and a _friend._

He needs to know.

Even if it breaks him.

“And?” He insists that Vision keeps going, his voice breathless, barely being able to produce a sound.

His body is so tense and his heart beats so loud he can barely hear himself think, so he almost misses what Visions has to say. But he doesn’t. He listens, as carefully as he can, carving each word into his brain like a tattoo, trying to grasp every detail, every shift of Vision’s voice, any hidden meaning that might be laced between his words, because Steve _has to know_ and he can’t afford to be told another lie right now.

Not about this.

He listens silently. He does not move, he doesn’t speak— he barely _breathes_ , as if the slightest hint of movement would startle Vision, would make him leave, and Steve needs this information the same way he needs air.

There isn’t much to say, because Vision soon stops speaking, and waits for Steve to say something in return. He doesn’t. Steve stands there, his ears ringing with a shrill noise, sweat beading in his skin and his beard scratchy and itchy and uncomfortable, his hands shaking, his stomach dropping so low he almost fears something is wrong in his body. He feels like the entire world has just given away beneath his feet.

(Do you feel relief? Do you feel guilt?)

(Do you even feel anything at all?)

(Or do you just endure it, for the sake of _your mission_?)

(Do you feel better now, Captain?)

(Do you feel _righteous_?)

“Captain?” Vision asks concernedly. “Are you alright?”

No.

_Yes. No, I— I don’t know._

“Yes.” Steve says, and it is as heavy as every other lie he is ever told, every single one of them that still taste like poison in his tongue as he swallows the truth back down. “Thank you for telling me, Vision.”

Vision stares at him for a long, painful minute, waiting for something more than just this… This complete numbness, but Steve has nothing to give him anymore. After a complete lack of an appropriate response, Vision turns, throwing Steve a worried glance for as long as he can manage before turning his head and walking back out, his steps light and soft, until Steve can’t hear him anymore.

As soon as he is alone, Steve draws in a breath like a drowning man reaching surface. Then, he almost starts hyperventilating.

(What were you expecting?)

(Are you happy?)

(Or are you _disappointed_?)

He takes almost twenty minutes to shake himself off his stupor and run to find Natasha, his feet moving without his consent, needing not to be alone and to speak the words out loud to someone else, so maybe— maybe they will make more sense, maybe the storm that begins to rage inside Steve’s chest will abate, someone else will hear the same and will assure him he doesn’t have to panic anymore.

(All so you can feel better.)

(I hope you feel better, Captain.)

(I hope you can still lie to yourself and say your hands are _clean_.)

He finds Natasha in her room, siting by the desk, reading the newspaper. Steve spares no time to glance at it and check if it’s in Arabic or English, because his eyes can’t focus long enough to tell; He feels all over the place, his mind exploding but his body heavy, tense and ready to snap, ready for a battle that exists only inside himself.

“We have some news.” He blurts out, sounding only a little desperate, which is good, because it almost hides the absolute thunderstorm that rages inside him at the very same moment. Almost. But Steve is sure Natasha can see it in his eyes, the agonized relief, the shameful reprieve, “About the new Reactor.”

Natasha furrows her brows, completely baffled, laying down the newspaper to focus her entire attention on him. “How did you get any information on it before me?”

“Vision.” Steve explains.

Natasha’s expression quickly morphs into something ugly, shocked and almost offended, as if Steve has just admitted to doing something completely idiotic. “You asked him for info? Why did you do that?”

“I thought it would be faster.” And it was, but he won’t make an accusation like this at Natasha. “Vision said there isn’t much in Tony’s records, but FRIDAY does have some info she could share.”

Natasha gives him a scornful smirk, raising an eyebrow. “You honestly think Vision went behind Tony’s back to read the records?”

Steve makes a brief pause, and even before he can properly think about it, he answers, “Not really.”

“Then you know what he did to get that info, don’t you? Tony _knows_ you asked. You might as well have picked up the phone and talked to him about it.” Natasha reprimands.

Steve doesn’t reply. He has nothing to say about that anymore.

What can he possibly say? That it’s _useless_? That he… he is afraid of trying again and being ignored?

That he fears that Tony is _hurting_ and he can’t do anything about it?

“It’s not an Arc Reactor like the one before. Not really.” Steve ignores her comments and keeps going with his planned explanation, _needing_ to say it aloud, needing another person to hear it to make it true, to make sure he didn’t imagine it. “It’s something called a nanite compartment. I don’t understand much about the mechanics of it, but it seems like it stores an armor inside. It’s not really stuck in his chest like the one he had before, it’s detachable.”

Natasha considers him for a moment, trying to keep her posture formal and stiff, but Steve can see the way her shoulders slump only a tiny bit at the new information, a brief relief she won’t allow anyone to know she feels, by knowing Tony is not in any sort of life-threatening danger. But, as immediately as that happens, she cocks her head a bit to the side, analyzing Steve with confused, extremely curious eyes. “This is really bothering you, isn’t it?” She says offhandedly, using a tone much softer than Steve would’ve expected she’d use. “Why?”

“Tony is using a Reactor again, and you aren’t worried?” Steve throws back the question at her, the deflection so instinctual at this point he doesn’t even realize he is doing it until after he’s done it.

“No.” Natasha easily replies. “That’s how Tony _is_. Sooner or later, he will find a way to call the armor just by _thinking_ about it. I wouldn’t be too worried.”

 _Yeah, that’s not happening_ , Steve hysterically thinks, and he almost feels like laughing.

“ _You_ seem worried.” Natasha points out.

“I always am.” Steve stupidly answers.

“Not for Tony, you aren’t.”

_Oh— Fuck, Natasha. That’s… that’s…_

“It’s ok.” Natasha huffs out a single laugh, a sad, muted sound, as she shuffles with the papers on the table int front of her. “Neither was I. Not always, anyway. But this time, it seems like there’s something you aren’t telling me.”

And Steve doesn’t know what comes over him, because he recklessly blurts out, “I can’t stop thinking about it.”, before he can think properly about it; and he sounds like a madman, he sounds wrecked and haunted and he knows Natasha can see it but for some fucking reason he can’t seem to be able to hold it in anymore. “The Reactor _._ ”

“Cap.” Natasha shifts in her seat, debating if she should stand up, support her hands at the arm rests in advance. She looks _scared._ “What’s wrong?”

“I was worried…”

(Tell her, Rogers.)

( _Tell her._ )

(Stop running away from me!)

“That he might have put the old Reactor back. Inside his chest.” Steve confesses.

“He did the surgery to have it removed and Helen helped him with new tissue and rehab. He’s stabilized. Why would he put the Reactor back on?”

Steve tries to breathe in deep, and he tells himself it’s fine, Tony’s fine, he can relax now, he can breathe because everything is fine.

It doesn’t work. He’s still shivering, he feels like he’s been _wounded_ , somehow.

“Steve.” Natasha insists, leaning forward so she can look him in the face, after he has lowered his head and closed his eyes in a vain attempt to block the overwhelming sensations out. “Why would Tony need to put the Reactor back on?”

She doesn’t know.

Dear Christ, no one else knows, besides Bucky. He never told them. Isn’t that the biggest joke of them all, the divine punishment for everything he’s done, for every single time he accused them of hiding something from him? This is penitence. This is the universe finally, finally getting back at him, the hypocrite, the coward part of himself, who speaks of graveyards of untold truths and judges others for their reservations, but hides a secret so big that it’s literally bursting out of his mouth with the need to be freed—

(Tell her.)

( _Tell her!_ )

( _You wanted to know about me._ )

(You wanted to know about my _heart._ )

(Don’t be a _coward_ and tell them.)

(Tell them why you are _afraid_ of me!)

“We fought.” Steve recalls in an almost delirious tone, trying to push it all back in but he _can’t,_ it’s too late now. “In Siberia.”

“You did, but everyone survived. You’re fine, Tony’s fine. What does the Reactor have to do with this?”

She doesn’t understand. Natasha doesn’t understand. Steve doesn’t want to tell her, he doesn’t want to bring this out into the light again – but has to, he _has to_ , he almost had a heart attack when Vision mentioned the Arc Reactor, this is _eating him_ from the inside out—

Steve needs to talk about it. Isn’t it ridiculous? Isn’t it just the most idiotic thing he’s ever done? Steve has avoided this for so long, his revelation, this _confession_ , but now it is bursting out of him, the overflowing dam he has tried to hard to keep closed all this time… It’s just spilling over. It’s spilling over because he doesn’t know how to _feel_ , the mixture between shameful relief and the horrid realization of what he might have done instead, merely replacing one wound for another, but wounding a _friend_ all the same.

Steve had been so concerned for Tony’s heart. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. The sound of his shield crashing into the glass casing of Tony’s Reactor haunted his dreams more and more often as days went by, louder and louder as the world around Steve started to get quieter with each and every goodbye he had been forced to utter, becoming so empty and so sour he feels like he is being _abandoned._ It’s the same thing he felt when he woke up and realized all he once knew was gone – he is gone too, everything the thought he knew and all the people he could count on once, they have left or they are leaving, and Steve _can’t fix them_.

Steve makes an aborted move backwards, considering just giving up in this conversation altogether, when Natasha’s voice interrupts him harshly.

“Don’t even think about it.” She growls. “You’re not escaping this conversation. Tell me.”

_You won’t understand._

_I barely understand it myself._

_Nat, you won’t understand._

_Bucky is my friend._

( ** _So was I_** _!_ )

Steve wants to tell her. He is desperate to get this out of his system, even though he knows it’s going to hurt, it’s going to make him angry and defensive and they will _fight again_ , and Steve promised himself he wouldn’t let them – but this isn’t about the Accords, is it? He promised not to fight about the Accords, not about anything else. And he promised to compromise, he promised he’d _try_ , and how can he do that if he is walking around with this huge, _agonizing_ secret every single day and night, a secret that rips him open from the inside out every time someone mentions Tony or Bucky or anything else that makes him remember.

Not many things make Steve feel _shame_ the way his memories of Siberia make him feel.

He can say it was about the Accords.

He can say it was his duty.

(You can lie to yourself over and over and _over_ again.)

But at the end of the day, it’s still Tony’s voice that follows him into his nightmares, and no one suspects a thing.

They don’t know.

Because _Steve_ is keeping secrets.

“When Tony attacked…” Steve loses the battle raging inside of him, the cowardly, paranoid instinct to deflect being swallowed by the crashing waves of _guilt, guilt, guilt_ he feels emerging from deep inside his chest, squeezing like a fist around his heart. When he speaks, he sounds _numb._ “I had to stop him. I knew Tony wouldn’t. He was furious, he wasn’t thinking clearly, and he wouldn’t stop unless I made him.”

“So?”

“I had to stop the suit.”

Natasha stares at him for a moment, and Steve knows realization dawns on her when he hears her take in a too careful breath, before whispering, “You broke it.”

Steve grinds his teeth with such force he almost feels them cracking.

“It wasn’t in his heart.” Natasha assures, but her tone is uncertain. She is afraid and she doesn’t know why, because she hasn’t guessed yet. And when she does, it will all be over. Steve will no longer be able to hide behind the ignorance of his teammates. He will never be able to forget this. “You didn’t hurt him if you disabled it. He’s alive, you’ve seen him.”

“But it was sitting right on top of his chest.” Steve grumbles, unconsciously bringing a hand to his own hair, holding tight to the strands, not quite pulling yet but _desperate_ to do so.

Natasha makes a quiet, uneasy pause. “And you didn’t just take it out, did you?”

(Tell her.)

(Tell her what you did!)

“I _crushed it_.” Steve exhales, the words choking in his throat. “With my shield.”

The silence that follows is the _worst_ Steve has ever heard in his entire life.

Natasha looks at him as if Steve has just tried to murder her.

“You—” She begins, but immediately stops, almost coughing with the way her words get stuck, her mouth open in horror and her eyes gleaming with something that looks _way too much like tears._ “Why the _hell_ would you do that?”

 _You don’t understand_ , Steve wants to cry, but there are no tears in his eyes. There is only agony.

Tony had been so angry. He had been so angry, so out of his mind, and he wasn’t thinking, he’d wanted to hurt Bucky, he’d wanted to hurt Steve by hurting Bucky, and Steve couldn’t let him, he was innocent, Steve had already done so much to make sure Bucky would be safe, he couldn’t let Tony just—!

“I had to stop him, Nat—” Steve begs, begs for her to understand, even if he knows she is way past listening now.

He knew this would happen.

He knew, he _knew_ , oh God, why the fuck did he do this?

Why couldn’t he just pretend it hadn’t happened? No one would have to know. Not now. Not before he had the chance to make amends.

“By hitting the thing that used to keep him alive with _your shield?_ ” Natasha says, outraged, as if she is ready to attack; When her body freezes and her eyes go wide with realization, and she looks at Steve without actually seeing him, her mind trapped in a distant memory. “That’s why you don’t have it. Your shield. You left it there.”

( _You don’t deserve it._ )

( ** _My father made that shield!_** )

“Steve…” She breathes shakily. “Oh my God, Steve.”

He knows, alright!? He knows, _he knows, fuck,_ Nat, please don’t do this.

Tony is fine, he tells himself. Tony is fine, he tries to say, but the words never leave his mouth. Tony is fine, he is fine, why isn’t Steve _relieved? Why can’t they just be relieved?_

“That’s why he won’t call.” Natasha mutters, only for herself, but she forgets that Steve is _right there,_ he can _hear her_ , _damned his enhanced hearing_ , he can hear her and she is _right_ , and Tony will never, never forgive him for it.

Steve turns around and leaves in a haste, ignoring Natasha’s call behind his back, pretending he can’t hear the worry in her voice or the way she almost tips the chair over when she gets up and uselessly tries to follow him. He is faster, she won’t catch up.

Steve doesn’t want her comfort.

He does not deserve it now.

 

(He knew it would be Sam’s turn, eventually.)

(He hadn’t known he would be the one to cause it.)

 

(The world is **_never_** kind.)

 

Steve has his knuckles bloody when Sam finds him.

He hears him getting closer, but he doesn’t turn around to greet him in any way. He doesn’t ask what the hell Sam is doing here. He knows. Natasha sent him. Hell, she’s probably around somewhere, listening in, because she doesn’t have the courage to come back and press him more about it. As always, Steve thinks with a dark, twisted irony clouding his thoughts, she might call herself heartless, but they all know how much she cared for Tony. In her weird, often shifty kind of way but she did. Leaving him to find Steve has done nothing to change that.

How fucking awful it must be for her, to learn something about Steve that is so evil and so selfish, to finally realize how broken they are, beyond all this mess created by the Accords?

Did they all think it was only about that? Or did they suspect? Did any of them ever thought it was strange the way Steve had refused to talk about Tony or Bucky, refused to talk about _Siberia_ , and had become so obsessed with the goddamned phone?

They must have. It feels like it was _so fucking obvious._

Steve is a man who drives himself forward through sheer will and strength, by the raw, burning desire to right the wrongs and help those who have no one else. This kind of drive is not quiet, is not easy – it is hot and it is explosive, fueled by feelings that sometimes border too close on anger, by unconformity and insolence, the refusal to any sort of surrender in face of the enemy. How did they not see it? Did they not see it in the slouch in his posture, the weight on his shoulders, the weariness in his eyes? The beard on his face? Steve is using it to hide from the world as much as he is using it to hide from himself, because he looks at a mirror in the mornings and he feels _empty_ when his reflection looks back. He grew out his hair, his beard, he tore off the star from his uniform; He did _all he could do_ to erase every single trace of Captain America of his life.

Because he doesn’t want him.

He doesn’t deserve him, either.

Because he has no shield, and he has no name, no _home._

“Uh…” it’s what Sam says, sounding _way too close_ for Steve’s comfort at this moment. “Do you want me to come back later or are we talking about this now?”

“It’s not the best time.” Steve says through gritted teeth, balling his hands into fists, inhaling sharply when the stretch of skin causes the cuts on his knuckles to pull taut over the bone and start bleeding all over again, sluggish and horrid, _painful_.

“Yeah, I can tell.” Sam cockily responds. “Which means we’re talking now. Move over.”

Steve does not move. He stands right where he is, in a fucking abandoned car lot a few streets down from their rented rooms, beating the training projection princess Shuri has so kindly provided them with senseless. He can imagine what he looks like. The training projection is made of something Steve can’t even begin to comprehend, something that is made of light but feels _solid_ , and Steve learned that when he failed – _refused_ – to dodge one of its attacks and the thing almost cracked his jaw.

It _hurts._ So he keeps going.

Steve let the goddamned thing hit him far more than he should. He probably has a bruise on his temple, a cut on his lip, maybe a huge mark of a fist on his left cheek. He probably looks like he’s been to hell and back. The thing is – he doesn’t give a _fuck._ He doesn’t care. He’ll keep fighting if it means it’ll take his mind out of it. He is so on edge, Tony’s voice in his head so loud and so violent, he’ll do _anything_ to make him stop.

(Tell the _truth_!)

(The truth, and I’ll _stop._ )

“You gonna talk or do I have to drag it out of you?” Sam insists, stepping forward to stand right behind Steve, in a way that Steve cannot continue fighting unless he wants to shove his elbow in Sam’s face.

“You were the one who wanted to talk.” Steve growls lowly, turning off the projection with an angry gesture. “I have nothing to say.”

Sam makes a sound that seems like a low, exasperated whistle. “I’m glad you give speeches better than you lie.”

“It’s not a lie.” Steve’s head snaps back in Sam’s direction, his gaze hard and pained. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That means you’re hiding something.” Sam accuses, and he can see the way Steve’s shoulders flinch at the words. He raises his hands in a gesture of surrender, but his posture shows no submission. “Look, I wouldn’t pry, ok? Not usually. But I walk in here and find you with your hands bleeding from punching the dummy. I didn’t even know you could do that. I thought that freaking thing was just a hologram. How the hell did you manage to hurt yourself like that?”

“He punched a wall on the way, too.” A third voice interrupts, and _of course._

There she is. Steve _knew_ she would be listening.

“Seems like he’s developing a habit.” Natasha grumbles, bemused.

“You brought Sam as your reinforcement?” Steve sneers, unthinking, ignoring the way Sam makes an offended sound.

“If that’s what it takes for you to talk.” Natasha retorts.

“Hey, hold on now.” Sam interrupts, stepping back so he can stand between Steve and the slowly approaching Natasha. “I’m no one’s errand boy, alright? I’m not here as reinforcement or whatever, I’m here ‘cause I’m worried about you.”

Steve makes a wary pause. “So she didn’t tell you?”

“She said you where talking and you freaked out and ran away, and I almost didn’t believe her, so I had to see it for myself.”

“Now you have.” Steve gives him a plastic smile, knowing Sam can see through the cracks of his poorly constructed politeness, his patience wearing too thin for him to keep himself in check. “And you can leave.”

“After seeing you like this? No way.” Sam turns his back to Natasha when he concludes she will not attack – at least, not while he stands there -, and he faces Steve head-on, determined. “Something’s wrong with you, man, and I don’t leave people to hurt themselves when they’re bad. I’ve seen a lot of soldiers do some crazy shit to themselves when they were down, Steve, I won’t let you do the same.”

Steve won’t tell him it’s too late for that. It wouldn’t make a difference.

“You think I’m blind?” Sam scoffs. “You don’t eat. You’re looking like a freaking caveman or some shit like that, using a _torn up suit_ and without your shield. I don’t even know if you sleep. You probably don’t. So, either you tell me what’s eating you, or I’ll drag it out of you one way or another.”

“He’s freaking out about Tony’s Reactor.” Natasha suddenly says, and her words echo through the walls the same way Steve can hear the glass shattering under his shield—

_No, **don’t.**_

“ _Natasha._ ” Steve hisses in warning.

“What?” Sam splutters. “Wait, the Reactor? What, why?”

“Tony’s using it again.” Natasha points out, as if it’s obvious.

“Yeah, I remember, we saw it on the news.” Sam frowns deeply. “What’s that gotta do with us?”

_Don’t._

“Steve thinks he’s the one who put it there.”

_Oh, God._

Steve reaches up to his hair, burying his fingers in the strands, stopping himself from pulling it in the very last second. He bunches it all in a fist, tight and unrelenting, probably smearing blood all over it, and he exhales in a useless effort to make his heart _slow down, slow down, you need to stay calm._

“Steve? Steve!” Sam’s voice sounds distant, like it’s coming from far away, and it takes a long painful minute before Steve can bring himself to focus again and actually see Sam standing beside him.

All he can see is white. He sees white and red, snow and blood, and he hears the _crash,_ loud and ceaseless, as if it’s happening all over again.

Sam grabs his shoulder and shakes him, _hard_ , and Steve barely even moves because he is so fucking tense his entire body feels like stone. “What the hell, don’t do that! Talk to us! Why do you think that?”

_You don’t understand._

“Because I did.” Steve quietly confesses, and the shame _blooms_ like the deadliest of flowers inside his chest.

“You’re making _no sense,_ c’mon, Steve, don’t do that. Talk to me, man.”

“It was an _accident._ ” Steve continues, as nonsensically as he feels.

“You said Stark attacked you.” Sam reasons, gripping Steve’s shoulder tight, trying to be reassuring. “He attacked Barnes, right? You fought back, man, that’s not wrong.”

“He attacked _Barnes?_ ” Natasha repeats, in a mix of scorn and confusion.

“Yeah, ‘cause of Zemo.” Sam answers.

“Why would Tony attack _Barnes_?” Natasha inquires, stepping forward impatiently.

“’Cause Barnes was the reason we were ignoring him in the first place?” Sam offers, mockingly.

_Barnes was the reason._

(Oh, isn’t that good?)

(Doesn’t it feel right?)

(The _truth_?)

_Barnes was the reason._

No. Bucky is not the _only reason._

( _Bullshit_.)

(You fucking coward.)

( **You _liar_** _._ )

Suddenly, Steve can no longer let this go on.

He can’t.

He _can’t._

It cannot be. It simply cannot be that he is the only one who sees this situation as it is. Fuck, ok, he _knows_ he is the only one who was there in Siberia, he’s the only one that knows what happened – but if Steve tell them, will they understand? God, Steve wants them to understand so badly. He can’t stand to stay quiet while they argue about Bucky right in front of him, not after everything, not after so many months agonizing over every single one of his decisions and his mistakes.

And this one – this one, silent, secret mistake he can’t help but relive over and over again, every night, when he dares to sleep.

His very first instinct is to shut down. Is to close his mouth and grit his teeth, pretend he doesn’t have to do this, pretend like it does hurt and so it shouldn’t affect anyone else around him; So there would be no need to tell them. Steve could stay quiet and wait, wait for all of this to blow over, and maybe someday – someday, when he is face to face with Tony again, he can sort this out.

But…

But isn’t that what landed him in this situation in the first place?

Steve doesn’t want to talk. Is bad enough that they can see him like this, they can see how the weight of his secrets are dragging him down slowly, day by day, in the shadow of his beard, in the restless exhaustion in his eyes. Steve has never wanted to be _decadent_ , to be miserable, but sometimes, it is how he feels, earning for something he doesn’t have anymore not because it was taken from him—

Not _only_ because it was taken from him. But because what he had left, he threw away.

_A choice._

_Between one friend and another._

( _Sacrifice._ )

But Steve doesn’t want to sacrifice anything anymore.

He has sacrificed so many people unknowingly. So many terrible mistakes.

How can he deal with the weight of a sacrifice of a friend that he has made _on purpose_?

No.

Steve doesn’t want to speak.

But he cannot _help it._

“Something happened.” Steve interrupts, and it might be only the depth of his agony that makes them stop, because his voice is low, barely audible, refusing to leave his lips any louder or more imposing. Steve does not feel imposing. He does not feel justified, even though he has told himself over and over that he was. The words no longer ring true, even inside the protection of his own, biased mind. “In Siberia.”

“Yeah?” Sam agrees, but it sounds like a question. “You said Stark went crazy and blew Barnes’s arm off. ‘Cause Zemo did something—”

“Zemo showed us a video”, Steve lowers his eyes to the ground, because he doesn’t want to _see_ what’s about to happen next, “of the Winter Soldier _killing Tony’s parents._ ”

 

( _Did you know!?_ )

_Yes._

 

Natasha suddenly gasps so harshly—

_Oh Christ._

So loud it doesn’t even sound like her—

_Nat, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._

And Steve feels shame like he never has before in his life.

Natasha sounds like she is choking on her own tongue. Steve has only heard her like this once in his life, and it was when she told him, for the first time, that _staying to together is more important than how we stay together._ He wonders what she thinks of him now. He wonders if she realizes now why Steve is hopeless.

Why he misses home, even though he’ll probably never have it back.

“That’s why you fought?” she whispers, completely distressed.

“Yes.”

_Yes._

( _Did you know!?_ )

_Yes._

**_Yes._ **

“I can’t believe this.” She whispers, staring at Steve with her eyes wide.

It’s like she’s never seen him before.

_I’m sorry, Nat._

“What? What!” Sam loudly protests. “Don’t start with private conversations now, c’mon—”

“ _Steve._ ” Natasha begs in a strangled voice, body swaying uncertainly, not sure if she should step closer or step _away_. “Please tell me you didn’t do what I think you did.”

He did.

God, fuck, he did, and Natasha knows. Everything as connected inside her mind now. She stares at him, at his beard, his tense shoulders, his bleeding fists, his locked jaw, his _terrified eyes_ , and Steve has never been so transparent to her before. The darkest, most villainous thing Steve has ever done, a selfish call and an _unforgiving_ choice, and finally, finally Natasha understands.

“Can someone please explain—!” Sam tries again, but Natasha isn’t done.

“I can’t _believe this._ ” She hisses, and the emptiness of her voice is slowly replaced by a growing, sizzling, _burning_ rage, and Steve knows how this is going to end. He wants her to stop, but he can’t. It’s going to happen, and it’s too late to stop it. “You didn’t _tell him._ ”

Steve shifts his gaze to the floor, tightening his fists so he can feel his knuckles _bleed_ , hoping the pain will be enough to stop him, _stop him_ , he knows Natasha is angry but there’s nothing Steve can do. He has no right, he has no strength anymore but he can feel himself getting defensive, hurt and melancholic, dreading the explanation he’ll have to give for what he has revealed.

Natasha will not believe him.

Natasha will not accept it.

She has been goading him into this, into talking about Bucky and Tony and _signing_ , and she didn’t understand why Steve kept dodging her – but now she does. She does, and she’ll destroy him for it.

“ _You didn’t tell him!_ ” Natasha accuses loudly. “You knew about Barnes and you didn’t tell him!”

Sam freezes, looking like Natasha has just stricken him right across the face, and he turns to her horrified. “What?”

And it’s true. It’s true, and what can Steve say to make Natasha listen?

Nothing.

“You also knew, Natasha.” He says, and it’s an accusation and a plea, all in one.

“I wasn’t the one who had something one the line here!” She growls, completely ignoring his silent request for mercy. “Barnes is _your friend._ You said you would tell Tony because Barnes _was your friend_ and you should be the one to do it! I was thinking you’d _do it._ But you didn’t, did you? Three years, and _you never told him!_ ”

“Wait, hold on.” Sam steps into Steve’s line of sight, looking back and forth between them with his eyes as wide as saucers. “You _knew_ Barnes had killed Stark’s parents? Since— Since _when?_ ”

“Since SHIELD fell.” Natasha answers through gritted teeth, her entire body shaking in rage. “It’s been _years._ ”

“No, wait, that can’t be true.” Sam complaints, and then he looks at Steve earnestly, expecting him to agree.

Steve does not.

He _can’t._

“Holy shit. That’s— _Holy shit._ ” Sam gasps, inarticulable. “Steve… Is that _true?_  What the— What the hell?”

He feels frozen in place. He can’t look away from Natasha. He can’t look away from her the same way he couldn’t look away from the explosion in Lagos, when the dread and the horror made the ground beneath him disappear and all of his thoughts dissolve into smoke. The terror of realizing that he has just destroyed something, something he was trying to protect, and it is his _fault_ that it’s broken.

“I wasn’t sure.” Steve says. “I wanted to be sure before I said anything.”

“Don’t _lie._ ” Natasha snaps back. “We _knew.”_

( _Liar._ )

( _Liar!_ )

( ** _Liar!_** )

“I wasn’t going to trust Zola’s word!” Steve protests, raising his voice.

“And what would you have done!?” Natasha scoffs. “Would you have waited until Barnes came to you willingly to be treated, and then you’d wring a confession out of him? _You don’t even mention the Soldier in his presence, Steve_. Were you expecting he’d _confess?_ ”

Steve feels something inside of himself roar with rage, and he sidesteps Sam so he can stand in front of Natasha, using all of his height to his advantage, making sure that she can see in his posture that he will _not accept_ this ridiculous slander of Bucky.

“It wasn’t his fault!” He snarls in her face, his hands trembling at his sides.

Natasha takes one glance at his posture and _pushes forward_ , right into his face, with no fear for what Steve might do to her. “If you try to push me against a wall again I will jam my elbow in your throat, Rogers. I’m done with your tantrums.” She warns. “I _know!_ I know Barnes isn’t guilty—!”

“Tony _attacked_ him! He tried to kill Bucky!” Steve reminds her, because she isn’t _getting it._ She doesn’t get it!

“What did you expect?” Natasha sneers. “He watched his parents die with their murderer right there.”

Steve wants to push her away, but he _can’t._

He is so, so deep into this.

_He can’t think._

“ _Bucky isn’t a murderer!”_ He screams at her.

“ _The Winter Soldier is_.” She screams back.

“He was being controlled by HYDRA.” Steve yells, infuriated. “Tony _knew_. I told him, over and over again! He knew Bucky had been controlled and he attacked him anyway!”

Natasha takes a step back, blinking fast, and then she lets out a cruel laugh. “Oh, good, you told him.” She crosses her arms and shifts her weight to her left leg, breaking her powerful stance, as if she won’t even _bother_ posturing herself as a threat to Steve. _She is not afraid of him_ , and she wants him to know. “And why exactly should Tony trust you, after learning you hid this from him?”

“He knew it before Siberia. He knew he was attacking an _innocent man_!”

“He also knew you were willing to do anything to stop Barnes from being detained in any way. _Anything._ ” Natasha says like it’s a terrible thing, like Steve has a _problem._ “I didn’t want to say this, Steve, but we can’t _trust you_ when the subject is Barnes. You are compromised.”

_Compromised._

“This isn’t a _mission,_ Natasha.” Steve growls. “This is my best friend—”

“Who you destroyed cities for.” Natasha interrupts, accusingly. “Who you _crushed Tony’s Reactor for_! You have to face it, Steve, when Barnes is concerned, _you don’t know how to stop._ ”

Steve thinks he can hear Sam curse from somewhere behind him, but he isn’t sure.

“It was the only way I could stop him.” He justifies. “Tony wouldn’t _quit_. He was going to kill Bucky!”

Unable to keep himself quiet any longer, Sam comes closer again and shoves himself between Steve and Natasha again, forcing them to step back a little, disrupting the encasing bubble of _betrayal_ and _hurt_ and _anger_ they built for themselves. For a second, Steve can almost breathe right. Almost.

But not quite.

His chest hurts. It hurts _so bad._ If he didn’t know better, he’d think his heart is trying to give out.

Sam raises a hand in a silent request for them to stop, to allow him to speak. “Dude, I don’t wanna be the voice of reason here ‘cause I’m obviously hearing something wrong, but you’re saying that Stark was trying to kill Barnes? The guy wouldn’t—”

“He would.” Steve retorts. “You didn’t— You didn’t _see_ him. Tony was out of control. He wanted _revenge._ ”

“Now I’m at loss because you said, all those months ago, when I asked why Stark had attacked you, _you_ said he _hasn’t trying to kill you._ ” Sam complains. “So, what is it, Steve?”

He hadn’t been. At first.

Steve hasn’t lied about that.

When Tony came to them in Siberia, he’d wanted to help. He said Steve was right – in his own way, always Tony’s way, _they could never say things honestly_ – and he offered _help._ He didn’t intimidate Bucky, he didn’t threaten Steve with the Accords. He was… He was a friend, he was listening to Steve about the Winter Soldiers, he hadn’t even been trying to trick them into coming back after the problem was solved.

No second intentions. No ulterior motives.

Just Tony, as a _friend._

_But after—_

“It was Zemo.” Steve tries to explain. “If he hadn’t shown—”

“You still _knew._ ” Natasha interrupts. “And you would have kept it hidden if you had the chance.”

Steve wants to protest, but the words won’t come out of his mouth.

_He is pathetic._

“All these years…” Sam whispers, appalled. “All these years we’ve been looking for Barnes, you _knew_ and you never told Stark?”

(You fucking _liar_.)

Steve has to hold back a sob, and it gets stuck in his throat painfully, scratching and cutting like he is swallowing down a handful of razorblades. “I was trying to protect him.”

“Steve, that’s— That’s _bullshit_. If you had told Stark earlier, he wouldn’t have started a goddamn _hunt_ for Barnes!”

“Not Bucky.” Steve corrects. “I was trying to protect _Tony. Both of them._ ”

“You were trying to escape the truth.” Natasha accuses, at the same time Sam asks _Which one is it?_ in an aggravated tone. “You were trying to ignore it. You would have gotten Barnes back and you would’ve hidden this _forever_ if you could get away with it.”

Would he?

He— He really wants to believe he wouldn’t have.

But would he?

(You _would._ )

“I didn’t mean to hurt him.” Steve reasons.

(No. You just didn’t care if you did.)

No, no, that’s not _true._ Dear God, that’s not true.

(Did you know?)

_Yes._

Oh, that hurts, that _hurts._

(Did you care?)

Yes, yes, yes. He cares. God dammit, he cares, he just didn’t know what to do.

Steve doesn’t throw himself out of windows for fun. He doesn’t rush into a fight because he likes it. He doesn’t risk getting shot or being killed for kicks.

He _cares_. He’s awkward to show it, he knows this, and sometimes he’s too harsh or too judgmental or too demanding, but he _cares._

(You just cared more about Bucky.)

No!

(No!?)

(Don’t _bullshit_ me!)

(Don’t you dare, Rogers, _don’t you dare!_ )

_Dear God, did he?_

Steve— Steve has lost so much. He… Christ, he’s lost so _fucking_ much. He was just— He was… He was trying to save the last connection he had to his old life. How is that wrong!? How is that bullshit!? He wanted— Christ, is that _selfish?_ Is it selfish wanting to save Bucky? It’s _not._ He doesn’t care what Tony says. Bucky deserved to be saved, nevermind he’s Steve’s best friend, nevermind Steve owed him that. Bucky was innocent. Nothing he did was his fault, he was being controlled, it was all HYDRA, it wasn’t his fault.

(It wasn’t his fault, but it was _him!_ )

_He was innocent, you know that, Tony!_

_Stop this._

_Tony, please, stop this._

_It’s not his fault._

(He killed my mother.)

( _Rogers._ )

( _He killed my mother!_ )

 _(You **knew**._ )

(You knew, and you let him go!)

“He is _innocent_.” Steve repeats, and he knows that no one but himself is listening.

( ** _You aren’t._** )

“If you know that” Natasha snarls. “Why didn’t you tell Tony before?”

“I kinda have to go with Nat on this one, Cap.” Sam says, stepping a little closer to Natasha so he can look at Steve, as if he needs to observe his posture to gauge if Steve is really telling the truth. “You just don’t do shit like that, man. That’s a huge secret. And the guy was your _teammate._ ”

Was.

_Was._

Was a teammate. _Was_ a friend.

“God, Steve, I don’t— _shit_.” Sam practically babbles, rubbing his head with his hand exasperatedly. “What were you _thinking_?”

(That’s the thing.)

(You _weren’t._ )

Steve doesn’t have anything to say. He wants to, wants to defend himself and his choice, defend Bucky from their rant, their words that feel so much like an accusation, but his body won’t cooperate. He has no words, no logic, nothing but the dark pit inside his stomach that is growing bigger and deeper with every passing second, a black hole that will trap him forever and he will never escape.

Natasha’s eyes gleam with unshed tears. When she no longer can stand Steve’s silence, she mutters, “I need to go.”, and so she does, turning around and leaving in a haste, without looking back of one single second.

Steve watches her go.

And he wonders—

He wonders if this is what will drive Natasha away.

Not the Accords. Not her long lost love.

Just… Steve.

_His fault._

 

There is something that Steve remembered a while ago.

It has nothing to do with his eidetic memory, nor it has to do with his military training, where he was forced to learn who to absorb as much information as possible in as little time as possible, for practical and useful purposes.

It is not something he kept in his mind because it was useful. It is something far more fragile, more irrational and sentimental, because Steve is a sentimental fool and, sometimes, these things sneak up on him, and they take root in deep, dark corners of his mind so silently he doesn’t realize they are there, until they have already consumed everything.

It’s fitting, he thinks, that this would be the thought that sneaks up on him.

Isn’t it the perfect eulogy for it all?

_An empire that is toppled by its enemies can rise again, but one which crumbles from within—_

_That’s dead forever._

 

(He is running out of people to count.)

(He—)

(He might as well count Zemo.)

 

Steve doesn’t know how this happened.

No.

That’s not true.

He knows how it happened. He knows every single choice, every single word, every single turn and decision that brought them here, to this point in time, where Steve finds himself alone in a rooftop with his legs hanging over the edge, his eyes lost on the horizon line and his heart crumbling into pieces.

He knows exactly what he has done.

And what he has not.

He’s not stupid, you know? Yes, maybe during the fight, and for some time after they escaped - those first few months that were soaked in anger and resentment and impatience -, Steve had blamed it all on the Accords. He thinks that at the time, that’s what he really thought it was. He was high on the adrenaline, on the rebel feeling of invading the Raft and freeing his friends, of telling Ross and all the governments in the world to just fucking _shove it_ and completely refuse to bend to their rules. Steve might have been known as Captain America, but America is not the one who holds his loyalty.

Steve is loyal to an idea, to a desire to be safe and be free, and not to the faceless institutions that through lying teeth promise they’ll give people that.

This is what he meant, it his letter. He hopes Tony understood. He hopes he said the right thing.

He believes in people. Not in governments, not in empty promises of rewards – but in _good_ people, people who are not afraid to dirty their hands and reach to help others, people who rage and people who riot, people who are not afraid to bare their teeth to the evil of the world and snarl back.

And he believes he is one of those people. He believes he’s only trying to do his best to help.

So he believed in himself. _Of course he did._

Dangerously arrogant, Rhodes had once called him. Steve had thought that was uncalled for. Steve had thought he knew exactly what was wrong and what was right, that he was always making the best call, and he could rest, if not peacefully, at least placated, knowing he did his best and he always took the best route to achieve his goals.

 _Dangerously arrogant._ It’s a fitting name.

Now, as he is faced with the inescapable proof of the remains of his mistakes, not by a column of graphics on a piece of paper nor by untrustworthy words coming out of Ross’ mouth, but by graffities tarnishing his image on the walls and by the sad recollections of a friend who has lost someone dear, doubts – on himself, on his decisions, on his actions – are now familiar, so familiar that Steve fears he might never get rid of them ever again.

What kind of team are they? What kind of heroes don’t care about the chaos they leave behind?

_No better than the bad guys._

It’s no wonder the world is trying to tear them apart.

They are too dangerous to stay together.

_And they tried. How they tried._

So many people had tried to break them apart. Loki. HYDRA. Ultron.

And in the end it was Zemo, a man consumed by grief, heart heavy with sorrow for his lost family and nothing more than his convictions to push him forward to destroy them for revenge - he was the one that succeeded.

No otherworldly powers. No army, no bullets or missiles or biological weapons. There was no need for a bomb. Not when his team had one inside already, just waiting for the right time to detonate.

And it was all it took. He found their weak spot and aimed at it, and everything else around it crumbled. A house of cards, tumbling at the slightest pressure. Steve and Tony, they both had held on to their own so fast and so tight they didn’t even try to reach out for each other. A road to hell, paved with good intentions. Paved with self-righteousness, with the unwillingness to give, with a _need to protect_ so strong it suffocated them.

Steve is not stupid. He sees Zemo’s plan crystal clear now. It was never, _never_ about the Accords, for Zemo. The conference in Vienna, that had been nothing but a convenient ruse. It had been nothing but the world being unkind, nothing but _time_ getting the best of them again, setting up the perfect stage for Zemo’s plan to unfold with no help at all.

Accusing Bucky. Using Steve’s weakness.

_Dividing the team. Using Tony’s weakness._

Had it been about the Accords, it wouldn’t have gotten this far. Steve and Tony would have fought, _of course they would_ , that’s what they _always_ did; But after so many years, Steve had thought they would get over it. They always did. Sometimes a little worse for wear, and sometimes with barely any scratches at all, but they always¸ _always_ found the middle ground once the dirt settled.

Not like any other friendship Steve has ever had.

But then again, _Tony_ isn’t like anyone else Steve has ever met.

That’s why…

That’s why he hesitated. It’s no excuse, _God_ , he knows it’s no excuse, but it’s the only thing he has. He has no logic to back him up on this.

It was _never_ about the Accords.

Zemo’s plan had been simple. _Divide and conquer._ Break Tony and Steve.

And he did it.

And now, they will never put themselves back together again.

 

(The world is never kind.)

(Steve should’ve known this would happen.)

 

A few hours later, Sam comes and finds him on the rooftop.

“Can we talk?” he mutters, lowly, approaching in careful footsteps. He seems to be alone.

Steve turns his head slightly, so he can see Sam from his peripheral vision, hoping to get a glance at his posture. He doesn’t see much. Sam is very consciously trying to transmit a sense of tranquility, a passive neutrality that Steve had never thought that Sam would use with him. It makes him feel awful. How did he reach this point, where he pushed his closest friends away to viciously that they don’t know how to approach him, like he is a frightened animal, who will attack if he feels caged?

_But that’s what he is, isn’t it?_

A caged animal.

Free, but held by invisible chains.

Steve nods, looking down. He knows that Sam approaches more from the sound of his footsteps than by his vision, but even so, he doesn’t turn around. The horizon gives him no answers, but Steve keeps looking for them anyway.

Anything that makes sense.

He would take anything by now.

Sam sits down beside him. Of all people, maybe not counting Clint, Sam is the one who likes high places the most. Steve thinks there might be a joke about birds somewhere in there, but he is too tired to chase it down to fully grasp it between the confusing corridors of his mind. But can tell by the way Sam doesn’t hesitate in throwing his legs over the edge either, not once making a face at Steve, as if he’s weird by deciding to sit in such a dangerous place; Only taking in the sight of the distant city and the nebulous clouds that slowly inch closer from the east, this is a place Sam too can feel at peace, perhaps even more than Steve can, right now.

They sit in silence, for a while. But no time in the world will be enough for Steve to steel himself for the conversation that sure is to follow.

“That was fucked up, man. Really fucked up.” Sam comments in a breathy tone, trying not to make it sounds like an accusation. He doesn’t quite succeed, but it sounds unjudgmental enough. Enough not to make Steve completely shut himself off in his defensiveness. Enough to keep him still, even though he desperately feels the need to be alone.

“I don’t understand.” Sam confesses. “Why would you _do_ something like that? Explain it to me, I’m not following.”

“Sam—” Steve tries to answer but finds himself lacking all the words he could use to try and make this a little less awful. He has no words. He has no explanation.

“Not judging.” Sam reassures softly. “I won’t say a word until you finish. Just talk, alright? Put that shit out of your chest and explain it to me.”

_What good will it do?_

_It’s too late now._

Sam can probably read Steve’s hesitation in his eyes, but he doesn’t back down. He stares back, resolute, determined to wait for as long as he has to for Steve to give in and _talk._

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” Steve sorrowfully says.

“Really?” Sam arches his brows. “Because that wasn’t the kind of reaction that something that _doesn’t matter_ causes on someone.”

He’s right, but Steve won’t admit it.

He doesn’t want to show Sam how truly ridiculous he has become.

“Talk to me.” Sam insists, eagerly. “I want to understand.”

 _Oh_ , _God_ — And isn’t that all that Steve wants? For them to understand?

_It’s all I want._

He doesn’t want forgiveness. Not from them. He _made his choice._

He just wants them to understand.

Steve knows no one else but him can ever truly understand how _despairing_ it was to him. The jab he once made at Natasha, the joking but not completely untrue comment about _shared life experience_ is more than just that. Is more than just a joke. Steve is a man who lives in unbelievable, unbearable circumstances, and he recognizes he didn’t adjust to the future as well as most people think he did. He does get tunnel vision, he does get nostalgic to the point of being _bitter_ , sometimes. He could try and blame the serum for that, but that would be a lie, because Steve has always been like this.

It makes him irrational, he knows.

He knows, and he _hates_ that it happens.

He just wants them to understand that.

“Bucky is my best friend.” Steve says in a low, reserved tone, his eyes cast down so he doesn’t have to face Sam. As if that would make any difference.

As if that would make him less pathetic.

“I let him fall off the train during the war, it was _my fault_ he became the Winter Soldier in the first place.” Steve gives a wry smile, and he doesn’t know why, why he gives that tight smile when all he can feel is sorrow. “I sacrificed myself in the Valkyrie with that idea. I woke up, _seventy years into the future_ , with that idea. I’d go to the Smithsonian and see the Commandos Exhibit and he was there, his picture, and all I could think was how I had failed him at the moment he needed the most. Learning he was alive… I almost couldn’t believe.”

He makes a pause, to make sure he can continue speaking and Sam is still listening. He is. He is listening quietly, as he promised he would, and even if it’s fickle, Steve feels a rush of gratitude for Sam, for his no-nonsense and incredibly loyal character, even though Steve realizes he isn’t as deserving of it as he once thought he would be.

“So much of my old life was gone.” He whispers, too afraid of being so open to speak too loudly. “He was all I had left.”

He takes a deep breath and hopes Sam can’t hear the way it sounds shaky, and Steve tries to disguise his trepidation by inspecting his own hands, his red, tender knuckles, that by now are no longer split open, but still hurt to the touch.

Steve pokes at them, and he doesn’t flinch when the sharp sting of pain crawls up from the back of his hand into his arm.

“I never cared that he was the Winter Soldier. I know that’s not Bucky. The Bucky I know is not an assassin. He’s just a guy from Brooklyn, like me. A guy who had a tough life and no other choice.” He says. “When I realized he was alive, I knew I had to do everything I could to make up for my mistake. I had to save him. From whoever it was. I— I _owed_ him that.”

Sam hums, but otherwise does not react.

“When Zola told us about Tony’s parents… It almost slipped completely out of my mind.” Steve gives out a scoff that is supposed to imitate a laugh, but it falls short. It simply sounds like a dying breath. “Zola had admitted to causing civil wars all over the world, enslaving and killing and torturing, he admitted to killing _Fury_ , and there was so much in those files I _almost didn’t notice._ ”

_But he did._

Sometimes, he wishes he hadn’t.

“When I did notice… I guess I had already made the choice not to tell him.”

“Why?” Sam speaks suddenly, almost startling him, unconsciously pulling Steve’s gaze back up to face Sam directly.

“What good would it do?” Steve questions. “Bucky wasn’t himself, I thought he wouldn’t even remember, and HYDRA was still out there. It… It had been so long ago. Tony would get angry, he would want to get revenge. Why would I allow that to happen?”

( _Why do you think it’s your job to do everything by yourself!?_ )

(You had no right.)

(No right to deny me that.)

(It was _my life._ )

( _My parents._ )

“Why would I make it worse for Tony?” Steve asks, and he doesn’t know if he is saying it as a rhetorical question or a supplication for help. He’s not quite sure how he sounds right now. “Why would I do that to him?”

“So you hid it to protect Barnes?” Sam presses, shifting in his position to adopt a less intimidating, less intense posture.

Steve forces his own shoulders to drop, even though the released tension on his back doesn’t help easing the churning of his stomach.

“I did it for both.” Steve explains. “Or I thought I did. I was just sparing myself in the end.”

And he was.

He wonders if Tony will forgive him for it.

“Sparing myself the pain of telling Tony something painful. Sparing myself of making Bucky remember something painful. I was a _coward_.”

Sam does not deny or confirm the fact. Steve is torn between appreciating the gesture and feeling scolded by it, the seconds of silence ticking by like the countdown to the explosion of a bomb, the eerie anticipation for a revelation Steve is not quite sure he’s ready to hear.

“Ok.” Sam exhales harshly, pushing all the air out of his lungs with force, grunting as he shifts in place again so he can pull his legs from the edge and turn his body to Steve, so they can have this conversation face to face. Steve feels pressured to do the same, even if the discomfort he feels by being so openly vulnerable makes his neck hot with shame. “Do you wanna hear what I think?”

Steve smirks bemusedly. “If I say no, will it matter?”

“Of course it will, what the hell do you think I am?” Sam frowns exaggeratedly. “ _Consent._ Ever heard of it?”

Steve shakes his head incredulously, unconsciously averting his gaze again, but Sam immediately pulls him back. “I’m serious.” He insists, “If you say you don’t wanna hear it, you don’t wanna hear it. I’ll respect that. But just so you know, I do have an opinion about it. You tell me if you wanna hear it or not.”

Want to? No, he doesn’t want that.

But he must. He must, because Steve’s mind is obviously in the wrong place, even if he wants to believe is heart is still on the right, and he needs someone else to tell him that because by now, he knows how this goes. He knows he gets too deep and he can’t find a way out of his own defensive, aggressive logic. His own teammates had seen to that. First Natasha, then Scott, the Clint, then Wanda— all of them, little by little, hitting all the soft spots in the fortress Steve built around himself until there was nothing left to protect the struggling mess beneath.

Steve doesn’t want to be a coward.

So, he listens.

“Alright.” He agrees. “Hit me.”

“You are an _idiot._ ” Sam says so quickly it seems like it was almost killing him not to do it before Steve complied. “You are a complete idiot. That is the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard. Seriously, it’s stupid, and you probably don’t even know why, do you?”

Good old _no-bullshit_ Sam.

Steve would’ve been offended if it wasn’t _exactly_ what he needed right now.

“Because I’m here, feeling sorry for myself—” Steve mockingly agrees.

“Feeling _guilty_ for something that isn’t your fault in the first place.” Sam interrupts, impatiently.

_But it is._

_It is his fault._

_Cap,_ Clint’s voice whispers from somewhere at the back of his head, _let go._

“Steve.” Sam scoots a little closer, as if Steve isn’t getting it because he can’t hear it. Or maybe that’s just his way of trying to get something through Steve’s skull, even though all he seems to be doing is trying to shut himself off. “It’s not your fault Barnes fell off a train. I know you tried to reach for him. Everyone knows. Everyone has heard the story, and everyone knows it was an _accident.”_

“No one knows how it doesn’t _feel_ like an accident.” Steve throws back.

“What, you don’t think I know how it feels to lose someone on the field? I do, man, you know I do. It feels like _shit._ ” Sam retorts angrily, before huffing. “So listen to me: _not your fault._ And all the crazy stuff that happened to him? That’s on HYDRA, not on you.”

Steve has heard this before. He has heard it over and over, he’d _tell_ this himself, over and over, but it never seemed to sink in fully. Steve, stubborn, _unyielding_ Steve, never trusting anyone and always trying to carry the entire world on his shoulders, unable to give up on his ground, _even if it’s unsteady_ , simply because it’s his. Unable to give up on his guilt, even if he tries to convince everyone to do the same.

He’s a hypocrite.

Such a fucking hypocrite.

“I did the same thing, you know.” Sam mumbles, like a shameful confession. “When Riley fell. I thought it was my fault. What kind of partner was I, if I let my wingman fall and I couldn’t do a goddamn thing?”

 _It’s not your_ fault, is the words that immediately rise to his mouth and almost get away—

Steve holds them back at the last minute, biting his tongue to keep them inside. He bites almost too hard, and he can taste the copper that floods his mouth when his teeth cut his right cheek.

“I was going crazy. I almost got myself killed once because I was so out of it.” Sam continues, oblivious to Steve’s mistake. “But these things _happen_ , in battle. We put our lives at risk every goddamn day, and sometimes… Sometimes we run out of luck.”

Out of luck. A kind way of saying what this kind of life does to people.

“Not your fault.” Sam whispers, and Steve wonders how much of those words Sam is saying to himself. “Whatever happened to Barnes is _not your fault._ ”

Steve wants to believe that.

He’ll try. He’ll try harder and harder, because he has to get over this, he can’t stand another day of this doubt, of this ceaseless self-flagellation and punishment, because this is getting him _nowhere._ He needs to learn how to deal with it, not only for his own sake; But for _Bucky’s_ sake. Bucky, who still sounds sad when he tries to gauge Steve’s reaction about the Accords, wondering if that day will be the day he’ll realize he made a mistake by choosing Bucky and he’ll finally give in to the papers.

Steve will _never_ , ever do that, but Bucky doesn’t seem to _get it._ And Steve tries to understand that, but he _can’t_. Each of them has their own share of inexplicable, unrelenting guilt and they are _awful_ at dealing with it, hurting each other and always waiting for something terrible to happen, and Steve has to _stop that._ Bucky can’t do it for them, so Steve must.

Steve blames himself for letting Bucky fall. Bucky feels guilty that Steve feels guilty.

It’s just a never-ending cycle, at it will _destroy them_ if Steve doesn’t stop it.

He has accepted so many other things before. Yes, he knows now that sometimes, he shouldn’t have. But he _had._ He had been able to, once.

He _needs_ to let go of this. Bucky is _safe._ He has to let go of this obsession.

Many things are Steve’s fault. _This_ is not one of them.

“And Tony?” Steve asks in a whisper, distressingly, locking in his jaw in an attempt to mask the reflexive gulp he gives, uncomfortable with the aching misery that fills his chest when he says the name out oud.

Sam jerks a little, almost as if Steve had startled him, like he had almost forgotten that this is why he was here in the first place.

But it is, isn’t it? Tony is the reason why this is happening the way it is, the reason why Steve refuses to talk about the things that hurt him the most, the reason why he might have pushed Natasha away for good now. After everything they have done together, ever since their first battle – her jumping on his shield, following him through a mission that would destroy everything she once thought she stood for, betraying others to go to him, _always trusting him and his decisions_ -, and now Steve has destroyed everything with one single secret.

“That’s—” Sam’s words falter, his eyes going distracted and distant for a moment, as his thoughts and his emotions wild and out of his control for a few seconds, before he can reign himself back. “That’s really complicated, man. I’m honestly having a hard time here, because _I’m angry at you_ , but at the same time, I get it. Doesn’t mean I’m not angry, though, _I am._ ”

“Not as angry as Tony is, I’m sure.” Steve comments, depreciatively.

“Yeah, I’ll _bet.”_ Sam exclaims, before taking in a deep breath. _“_ It’s just… It’s a lot to take in.”

“Yeah… That’s an understatement.”

Sam slaps his hands on his thighs and exhales sharply, obviously having _no fucking idea_ how he should approach this subject with Steve. He seems to ponder of a few seconds – and then, he obviously comes to a decision, because all of his hesitation just disappears and looks back at Steve with a determination so fierce one might think he was going to battle.

“I would have _decked_ you, you know that, right?” He then asks, with an arched brow. “If it had been me. I would have beaten _the shit_ out of you.”

Steve smiles, and he’s surprised to find that he kind of means it a little. “I know. And I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

The answer seems to baffle Sam for a second. “Do you blame him?”

That’s a good question.

(Do you?)

_Do I?_

“No.” Steve confesses. “I don’t.”

“Is that the truth?” Sam insists, staring at Steve so intensely he might as well be transparent.

“Yes.” Steve affirms, and to his own surprise, he’s kind of annoyed he has to repeat it. He then realizes he truly _means it._ He doesn’t blame Tony. He _was_ wrong in attacking Bucky, but it’s _not his fault_ the fight had ultimately happened.

He had thrown the first punch, it’s true.

But the fight hadn’t started there, had it?

“It’s the truth.” Steve settles, giving Sam no chance to doubt it.

Sam considers him for a moment, thoughtful, and then nods in agreement, content; Like Steve has given him the answer he wanted to hear. 

Once again, Steve questions what exactly people seem to think _he_ thinks of Tony. First T’Challa, and now Sam.

He wonders how their relationship might have looked like, to everyone who knew them.

He wonders what it looks like now, to those who know. If it’s as terrible as Steve feels it is.

“You know, I thought he was being petty.” Sam comments in an offhandedly manner, confusing Steve for a second. “Stark. When I realized you gave him a phone so he could reach you, and then, an _entire year_ went by and not a single word from him? I thought: _this guy is a real fucking asshole._ A silent treatment, because of a piece of paper?”

(How easily we create a mess, don’t we?)

(How easily we turn against each other)

(When we don’t know the truth.)

Steve grumbles shamefully, “It’s not about that.”

“Yeah, I get that _now_.” Sam exasperatedly says, before asking in a assertively curious tone. “Would you have told him?”

( _You would have hidden it forever!_ )

“It took you two years, and you never told him. It… It makes me wonder, you know?” Sam inquires. “Would you have told him? At all?”

“I like to think I would.” Steve admits.

“But you’re not sure?”

“I don’t know.” He sighs. “Maybe not anymore.”

“Why?” Sam presses.

Why?

Maybe because Steve tells himself that it’s okay if there’s any casualties in the aftermath of their mission, but he failed to understand the world does not agree. Maybe because he has once claimed the safest hands are their own, but he has torn apart both institutions that gave him any oversight, and he failed to see why that would make people scared. Maybe because he used to wear a _flag as a uniform_ , and he always thought people would think of him as anything more than that as he is breaking their homes and leaving the debris behind.

Because he was _wrong._

“I guess I don’t know myself as well as I thought I did.” He simply says, even though it’s the understatement of the century, but he doesn’t have the _words_ to explain out loud all the overwhelming chances he has gone through ever since their escape. Sometimes, he doesn’t even recognize himself. He’s not sure if he likes who he has been or who he has become.

He’s not even sure what kind of man he is at this moment.

“Then you gotta work on that, Cap.” Sam retorts, kindly. “You get too intense sometimes, you know? Too much going on in your head. You have a tough life, and I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes most of the time, to be honest, but you gotta work on that.”

Steve gives him a nonsensical look, actually kind of amused; Because he knows Sam is indignant for what he has just learned, learned about _Steve_ , but he’s still here, trying to cheer him up. It doesn’t make him feel a whole lot better, but it does spark something softer inside him, something other than the rancid, ugly emotions aroused by his doubts and his regrets, something that seem a little bit like hope. Not for Captain America, and the legal mess he left behind – But for Steve Rogers, the boy from Brooklyn, the stubborn punk who’s always picking up a fight, and so desperately wants to do the right thing.

The man who wants to do the right thing, with the right people.

(Not a good soldier.)

_Just a good man._

Steve has been keeping his friends at an arm’s length for a while, because he felt like he was _losing them._ But maybe he isn’t.

Maybe if he tries, he can still salvage this.

“You fucked up, face it.” Sam keeps going, now speaking more enthusiastically. “ _He_ fucked up too! I mean, at the end of the day, Barnes is still innocent, you can’t just blame the guy for something he did when he was mind-controlled. The dude’s wrong on that. But I guess he just didn’t know Barnes like we do. He couldn’t see it.”

Steve almost starts to agree with him—

_But he did. He did see it._

Tony had seen Bucky stand behind Steve with a gun on his eyes, guarded and scared, so, so scared, so afraid Tony had followed them to Siberia to continue the fight. Bucky’s mind had been _clear_ at that moment. How could anyone that a look at him at that moment and claim he was a murderer?

(You can get irrational, Cap.)

( _So can I._ )

( _Why_ do you think it happened!?)

“You’ll have a _lot_ of apologizing to do when we get back.” Sam chuckles, dragging out the vowel in the word _lot_ with as much drama as he can.

(It happened because of _you._ )

( _You_ could have prevented this.)

(You worry about HYDRA, and Crossbones, and the Accords.)

(And _this?_ )

(The _one_ thing you _actually_ could have prevented?)

(You _didn’t._ )

“I know.” Steve smiles sadly, and for a moment, he’s speaking both to Sam, and to himself. “I just hope he can forgive me.”

Because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if Tony does not.

The rain clouds are creeping closer now. It’ll rain soon. He won’t be able to see the sunset because in a matter of minutes, maybe, the sky is going to be completely grey, dark and stormy, turning the night ice cold. Steve’s fingers feel a little numb. His knuckles have healed. The smell of the rain is almost overwhelming, rich and sharp, and he takes a deep breath to get it into his lungs, savoring the feel of something that isn’t the tenderness in his hands or the fluttering of his uneasy heart, the wings of the hummingbird trying to escape its cage, a staggering amount of conflicted feelings he has no way of letting out.

He feels something odd in the air, a weird sensation of needles lightly touching his nape, the sensation of _being watched, and_ he turns his head to find Sam staring at him again, with a puzzled look on his face.

“What?” Steve asks, uncomfortable.

“Nothing.” Sam replies, quietly, “Just thinking.”

And as if that isn’t the vaguest response he could have ever given, Sam retreats from his intensity, once again falling back into his more relaxed position, turning his gaze to the clouds as well, seeming to be considering something within the safety of his own thoughts.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to punch you again.” He says, but it doesn’t sound like a joke. It just sounds like a statement of a fact. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if he forgave you either.”

“I’ll take the punch if it makes him feel better.” Steve jokingly replies.

“He might do it even if it doesn’t.” Sam reminds him. “Let him. You won’t even feel it anyway.”

Oh, but he will. He knows what Tony’s punches feel like now.

He will feel it.

But he might let him all the same.

“Well.” Sam grunts as he shifts position, so he can find his footing and stand. “That was a nice talk, and let’s never do that again, you understand me?”

“Yeah.” Steve agrees with a light chuckle. “Once was enough.”

“Once was _more_ than enough.” He smiles and points directly at Steve’s face, falsely intimidating. “I don’t need you to be scaring me like that again, I’m not cool with that. You do that shit again? I’ll the one to beat your ass.”

_Sam Wilson._

_Always a friend._

“I’ll hold you to that.” Steve says, and he absolutely means it.

He can keep this. Steve wants to keep this.

Steve doesn’t want to feel like he’s losing the only people he has in his life anymore. This weird, ragtag group of people, who are hurt and kind of broken, whose normal routine includes far more danger than it should. He wants to keep them. Maybe they are not as close as he thought, not as well-adjusted as he thought, but he wants them to be; If there’s still time to do it.

If not them, who else? Who else can stand the mess that is Steve Rogers, the man out of time, the stubborn son of a bitch who likes to pick fights with people twice his size? He needs this family.

He’ll have to do what it takes to keep them.

Sam has gotten up and is making his way back inside the building by the time Steve comes back to himself. He jerks a little, shaking himself off of his stupor, and he turns around to see that Sam is almost at the door, and Steve still has to say one thing before he leaves.

One thing he needs to solve, if he wants to fix this.

“Sam?” Steve calls, and he waits until Sam has turned around so he can ask, in a almost bashful tone, “How is Nat?”

Sam exhales a soft _oh_ under his breath, putting his hands inside his pockets in a uncharacteristically bashful manner, almost _awkward._

“She’s… She’s pretty shaken.” He says. “She didn’t take it well.”

Of course she didn’t. Steve _saw._ And even worse, Steve knows he was the one who caused it. “I promised her I would tell Tony, and then I didn’t. And then I hid it from her.” He admits, mournfully, “I don’t blame her if she doesn’t trust me anymore.”

Sam sighs deeply, lowering his head. “She trusts you, Cap. But she needs to know _why._ This is hard for her.” He explains. “I mean, she’s _not_ innocent in this scenario either, both of you just acted like complete assholes and I’m not pretending you didn’t… But she trusts you. She trusts _you_ , but she doesn’t _actually_ trust Barnes.”

 _Natasha never trusts anyone_ , the cruel part inside of Steve wants to say.

But he knows, he has seen it in her _eyes_ , that this isn’t true.

“I feel like… she’s always waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Sam comments, secretively. “And knowing you _lied_ to Tony to help Barnes, that’s… She’s _worried._ About what it all means. For you, for her, _and for Tony._ ”

“I thought I was making the right call by waiting.” Steve says, but at this point is not even an explanation anymore. Nor it is an excuse, or a plea. It hurts a little, a light throb in his bruised heart, the ache after a long exhausting battle, but something _final._ Something _irreversible._ “I was wrong.”

“As long as you know that.” Sam takes in a deep breath and exhales, then nods, not completely at ease, but somewhat calmer. “It’s done. It happened. Nothing we can do about that now. Just… Just keep that mind, alright? Wait a while, get yourself together, and then go talk to Nat. Apologize. And then you pick that _goddamned phone_ , you call Stark, and apologize.”

_If only it was that easy._

He tried, before.

_And it didn’t work out._

“I’m tired of seeing you mope around, man. It’s time get this over with. _Talk to her. Apologize._ No more hiding stuff.” Sam insists, just for good measure.

“Alright.” Steve agrees, grateful, truly grateful, but needing this conversation to be over. He needs to think for a while. _He needs some time to breathe_. “Thanks for listening, Sam.”

“I’m always here for you, Cap.” Sam reassures. “Just remember: Next time you pull some shit like that? I’ll kick your ass.”

And with that parting jab, with a smirk on his face and a lazy wave, he turns around and goes for the door again – and this time, Steve lets him go.

The air smells _strongly_ of rain. He hears a thunder rumbling somewhere distant.

He doesn’t leave the roof even when the first drops of rain start to fall.

 

He calls Bucky, that night. He just… Just wants to hear his voice.

“Is everything alright, Stevie?” Bucky asks softly, when he realizes there is something wrong with him. Maybe is the way he’s speaking. Maybe is the way he’s pausing.

Maybe he just knows Steve way too well.

“Yeah, it’s fine.” Steve tells him, and he doesn’t know if he’s lying or not. “I just wanted to know how you’re doing.”

“I’m fine. And I was fine yesterday, and I was fine last week.” Bucky replies with a mocking tilt to his tone. “There isn’t much going on around these parts, ya know? Just a bunch of goats running around and stuff like that, otherwise is pretty quiet.”

Steve suddenly has the weird impulse to ask Bucky if he has finally found his calling as a farmer, but he doesn’t quite have the motivation or the high spirits to say that joke out loud. He mostly just wants to sit here, in silence, and listen to Bucky speak – the undeniable proof of everything has been fighting for, the proof that Steve’s best friend still exists, he’s still alive, and there is no trace of that looming shadow they call Winter Soldier.

It’s a small reassurance, but Steve knows that beggars can’t be choosers.

“It’s good.” Bucky assures him, and it Steve’s heart constricts with unrelenting gratitude to T’Challa, in hearing how _happy_ his best friend sounds. “It’s calm. Makes me feel better.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Steve says, and this time, it is nothing but the complete truth.

Bucky huffs out a laugh, as if he’s vexed with Steve’s obvious display of sentimentalism, and he quickly finds a way out of what he probably thinks was about to become a very uncomfortable topic.

“How about you, Stevie?” He then asks. “When you gonna settle down in one place?”

_When, indeed._

“Never, I guess.” Steve sighs. “Not until the job is done.”

“The job is never done.” Bucky points out, not unkindly, but firmly. “That’s the problem.”

“What else can I do?” Steve derisively says. “Somebody’s gotta do it. The fight won’t win itself.”

And something in Steve’s words, or maybe in Steve’s tone, makes Bucky fall really, really quiet.

Steve immediately worries and wants to apologize, but he doesn’t know _what for._

“Yeah.” Bucky agrees. “I know.” And he says nothing else, and Steve _hates_ the silence he unknowingly created between them. He hates it, he _despises_ it with every fiber of his being.

He needs to go.

He needs to be alone.

 _Now._  

Bucky can’t hear him breaking down.

“I’ll talk to you later, Buck.” He abruptly says, hoping the forcibly light tone he uses it’s enough to hide his panic, to make him not seem so rude, not make Bucky _question_ if he’s okay.

But Bucky seems distracted. He sounds distant and he sounds anesthetized, and Steve wants to punch himself for doing this to him. “Yeah, sure.” He says, in a breathy tone, before lowly muttering, “Bye, Steve.”

They hang up; And Steve, not for the first time, is disconcerted by his ability to _destroy things_ so easily and so quickly that he isn’t even aware he’s doing it at all, until it is _too late._

“You insensitive asshole”, he chides himself under his breath, lowering his head in shame and complete, utter exhaustion. “Let _go_.”

He stares at the communicator on his palm, holding back all his instincts that scream at him to ball his hands into fists, to crush the metal between his fingertips, to find some sort of physical relief, _any kind of distraction_ , to this agonizing hurricane that rages inside of him.

It is with great effort that he loosens up, after long, drawn-out minutes of controlling his breathing, and he leaves the comm on top of the nightstand, by the _goddamned_ , _infuriating_ flip phone.

And he wishes he could make a call on it as easily as he could call Bucky.

He wishes he could call Tony.

He just wants to hear his voice.

 

Steve, not for the first time, wonders what people see when they look at him and Bucky side by side.

Not literally, of course. Very few people have seen them properly interact ever since Steve woke up, and even less people have seen them when they weren’t kicking someone’s ass or kicking each other’s ass for whatever reason. Sam has certainly seen it, and the others – Clint, Scott, Wanda, and Sharon – have been given a glimpse, but in such a hard time and so quickly he doesn’t even know how they’ve registered that encounter in their minds.

It occurs to him, when he thinks about it, that Natasha has never seen the two of them together. Not properly. She has seen Steve fight him, she watched Steve be arrested for him, Steve leaving for him, Steve and Bucky running away when she helped them by stopping T’Challa. But in the end, that was all she saw: snippets and pieces of a bond only shown in the light of violence, often when Bucky is running from something, as Steve is running with him.

That… explains a lot.

The more he thinks about it, the more sense it makes.

After everything they have been through, everything Natasha has done to help them, Steve had been under the impression that she knew. That she knew, even if she couldn’t _understand_ , none of them could, how vital was for Steve to get Bucky safe and acquitted of the Winter Soldier’s crimes. That she would never grasp how deeply and intrinsically Steve felt Bucky’s innocence, how unfair had been the hand he was dealt, but she at least would’ve known by the look on his face that he was _not that Soldier, not that man_ , and it wasn’t his fault.

But… Natasha had never actually seen Bucky, did she? Not like Steve sees him.

 _She doesn’t trust Barnes_ , Sam had said.

And he might’ve been _right._

All this time, all of this, and Natasha has nothing that proves to her that Bucky is the person Steve says he is.

That messes with Steve’s mind much more than he’s comfortable admitting. Not only because it explains _so much_ , so much of her hesitation and insistence of making Steve talk about it; But also her accusation of him being _compromised._ Even though Natasha is a good person, and she believes, at least to some extent, that Bucky is innocent - She is _wary_ all the same _._ Steve can see that. Her present is difficult, and her past is even worse, conditioning her to a life of masks and suspicious glances, of taking nothing at face-value and doubting _everything._ Even her friends.

Steve… Steve can’t accept that very well. He knows it’s illogical, and he tells himself to stop it, because he has no right of feeling offended if Natasha has doubted him in any way when he told her Bucky is innocent. But it’s just a defensive reaction. After hearing over and over that his best friend is a murderer and a monster, being doubted by a _friend_ hurts twice as much, especially a friend like Natasha.

Maybe… Maybe it hurts even more than that, after what’s happened.

After Tony.

Steve tries to think about how it must have been, for them. He revises the events in his head, going back years in the past to remind himself of that terrible realization, the discovery of the Winter Soldier’s identity, all the pain and sorrow it followed.

The fall of SHIELD. The Helicarriers. Their _fight._

After Bucky pulled him out of the Potomac, Steve didn’t see him anymore. But he looked for him – oh, _did_ he look for him. _Everywhere._ Even with Sam’s help, even after Bucky’s face had been recognized by some bystanders during their fight on the highway and his name was being mentioned all over the news, Steve spent almost two entire years without seeing Bucky anywhere.

And it had been _agony._ And everyone had noticed.

Steve had never actually told his team what went down between him and Bucky during the fall of the Helicarriers, not in detail, but they all _knew_ Bucky was alive. It was on the _news_ , for God’s sake. And none of them asked if he had known, because they could probably tell by the look on his face. They all had taken one good look at him and _known,_ known that, despite what happened between them during the fall of the Helicarriers and the battered state in which Steve had returned, he’d do _anything_ to find Bucky and bring him back.

That was all he had focused on. Nothing else.

 _I’ll bring him back._ What does that sound like, to everyone else? To Steve, it had sounded exactly as he said. _I’ll bring him back._ Bring him back from wherever he was hiding, and bring him back from the dark places in his mind, bring him back to _himself_ , to the man Steve knew ever since he was a child and no bigger than a goddamned twig. He wanted to give Bucky back the life that had been taken away from him. That’s all it was.

But then, he remembers _how it happened._

The moment when Natasha walked up to him with a Russian file in her hands, after calling in so many favors from her less than amicable sources, in front of Nick Fury’s fake grave. They had been standing at the edge of something they didn’t quite understand yet, and they hadn’t known. Secrets being toppled so others could be kept, the beginning of a journey Steve couldn’t have imagined where it would end, a risky, _dangerous_ choice.

And she told him: _You might not want to pull on that thread._

She had thought Bucky had been beyond salvation then. She never had faith in it. She might have believed that Steve would find him, but never that Steve would save him; And Steve _hadn’t helped_ either. Because the very next time they had ever discussed it, Bucky’s name was being slandered and he was being accused of bombing the UN conference in Vienna, and Steve remembers _exactly_ what he told Natasha on the phone that day. She asked why he had to do this, _why_ he had to find Bucky first, and Steve, _unthinkingly,_ had told her:

_I’m the one least likely to die trying._

And then Steve helped Bucky beat up the German Task Force, and injured several civilians when then they destroyed a bridge. Bucky hadn’t tried to escape the cell and he seemed to be somewhat calm – but a few seconds with Zemo in the same room as him and he suddenly had been transformed back into the Winter Soldier, and he hurt and incapacitated several officers on his attempt to escape, including Natasha and Tony themselves.

Natasha saw him as a threat. She might even believe he is innocent, Steve honestly isn’t sure, but she had never trusted Bucky would ever be _safe._ He would _always_ be dangerous. And for someone who probably is used to be one of the most skilled and strongest people in the room, an assassin trained to be flawless and terrifying, the only thing Natasha fears is something stronger than herself. Something _more dangerous_ than herself.

She’ll never trust Bucky, unless she’s _sure._ But how can Steve ever give her that?

Suddenly, Steve understands. Natasha doesn’t trust Bucky enough to be at ease, because the guarded part inside of her, the part that is more Black Widow than Natasha Romanov, tells her that it might be a _farce._  

Realizing this tells him a lot.

And it also tells him this:

Natasha, who trusts no one, Natasha, who changes sides and always has three or four alternative plans, _Natasha_ , who claims to be loyal to no one, is loyal to _Steve._

That, in the end, is what hurts the most.

All this time, even as she doubted, she _trusted Steve’s word._ And if Steve is to be honest _, painfully, excruciatingly honest_ , she had _no reason to._ When they first met, long before Steve was even out of the ice, the Winter Soldier shot Nat right through the belly. He was the protagonist of Natasha’s bedtime stories as a captive under the KGB, stories that were not about monsters in closets or under the bed – but monsters armed with guns and knives, that are stronger than her, more skillful than her, and to stand in their way would mean death. Steve remembers the first time she told him about the Winter Soldier, and he can remember how _scared_ she was.

And despite not trusting him, she helped _Steve._

She feared for him, but she helped. She didn’t agree, but she allowed. She _tried to stop them_ but _changed her mind_. Natasha had done so many things, against her own instincts and doubts, just because Steve needed her too. That— Steve doesn’t know what to make of that. She had trusted him _so much,_ and now, what has become of them? They had fought about the Accords, and they are fighting about this. _Why would she trust him?_ Why, if every time she warns him about something he ignores it, if every time she tells him Bucky clouds his judgment and he makes light of it, _how long_ until she decides she won’t trust him anymore?

Maybe she already has.

Maybe this revelation was the last thing she needed as proof.

 _Compromised_ , she told him.

_She is right._

She doubts Bucky, and Steve has never given her _anything_ to put her doubts to rest. _Absolutely nothing._ He just told her he was fine, he was safe, and he hoped she would take his word on it and not worry about it anymore – or maybe she still would, but she would at least stop trying to convince him otherwise.

How arrogant is that, to believe his words are enough proof?

His words, that have never been as effective as his actions.

His _words_ , like when he told her he is always honest – as a _joke_ , but also not, as a _deflection_ , but also not.

For someone who makes such a strong distinction between right and wrong, Steve is coming to understand he lives in areas that are far less clear-cut than he’d like to admit, a line he’s been tiptoeing on since forever, and he never realized it. Violence as peace, lying in the name of truth.

Wanting everyone’s secrets but unwilling to give away his own.

God, he had been _so angry._ He remembers— He remembers Bucharest, and Bucky being arrested, and how _fucking irritated_ he had been by the way they were treating him. Putting him in a glass cage—

(A _glass cage._ )

(Funny little coincidence.)

With his hands trapped by steel bars, in an _isolating room._ Steve knows what’s the protocol for suspects of terrorism and he knows they wouldn’t allow Bucky to just roam around—

But he also can’t help but think how unfair, how _unlawful_ it all had been—

But then he _also_ remembers Natasha’s screams, her shaking and her fury and _you are stronger and you have no rights, and they used that as an excuse—!_

He can’t fucking _decide._ He can’t choose between feeling angry or being understanding or being indignant or being resigned, because he is all of it and none of it at the same time! This is _outrageous_ , it’s a fucking circus and he can’t see the situation properly anymore.

He hadn’t been expecting them all to believe him immediately when he said Bucky was innocent—

But he had also been expecting they would treat Bucky differently. He had, in some level, expected his statement to be taken to their hearts and respected.

That doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t make any fucking sense.

Steve… Steve had never _bothered_ about how he was going to _prove_ it. He had never _thought_ that far. The pendulum inside his head had swung so fast and so hard, turning on a switch that turned his focus into a laser sharp point, where all he could see was the objective of getting Bucky _safe._ But, in retrospect, _what was he expecting?_

Would he bring Bucky back? Would he turn Bucky in to be evaluated and treated, even with the risk of him being accused of any of the Winter Soldier’s crimes? The very idea of it made Steve’s stomach churn. No, _no,_ he would never do that. Would he help Bucky escape to somewhere safe? Where would they go? Of course, now Bucky was in Wakanda, but Steve hadn’t thought that would even be an option before. Where would Bucky stay? And would he stay hidden forever, always cowering, always looking back over his shoulder, to make sure no one would recognize him or hunt him down for an _irrational_ revenge? No, he couldn’t do that.

Then _what?_ What would he do?

Steve has never thought about it.

All he could think of was _I need to find Bucky._ He needed to find Bucky, find his best friend, and make sure he was safe. Make sure they were together.

And then _what?_

Steve had never had any intentions of getting Bucky involved in a legal process. It would be unfair, and it would only make Bucky feel worse. Steve would have ignored every single accusation ever made about the Winter Soldier if he had his way. But the world wouldn’t. The world would ask for reassurance, for proof, for safety measures, and what could have Steve given them?

No, he wouldn’t do that.

_Then what?_

(Do you dare?)

(Do you even _dare_ thinking about it?)

(There was another option.)

(You _know_ there was.)

(Would you be as _cruel_ as to have used it?)

(Before all of this?)

(Before **_I knew_** _?_ )

( ** _Would you?_** )

Steve had never thought this far.

And that was reckless, and insensitive, and arrogant and he _knows._

He never thought this far.

He had a goal, and he used the people who trusted him to achieve it. He hadn’t had their support, but they had helped either way, and he took it for granted so easily that only now, when he’s about to lose _another_ friend for the very same reason – only now he realizes why.

He apologized, but it wasn’t enough.

He lost.

(Losing. _Always_ losing.)

He lost _Tony._

He can only _pray_ he hasn’t yet lost Natasha.

 

Steve only realizes he hasn’t spoken in days when he finally _does,_ and he sounds like his lungs are filled with water.

He has been keeping himself away for a while. He puts on a disguise and goes around the city for hours, sometimes unnecessarily, just so he can have some time alone, so he can think. Being among the civilians helps a bit. In the middle of the crowd, no one notices him, no one sees him, and it’s the only time he doesn’t feel like he’s being watched or suffocated by the stifling aura he created between himself and his teammates back at their rented rooms.

It makes him feel very grounded, in a way it didn’t used to.

Steve used to go out to run in the mornings, but although he runs faster than everyone else, he never felt like he was catching up. He’d go to coffeeshops and diners, but he can’t keep a good conversation for long, because he’s lacking over fifty years of popular knowledge. He can go to the gym, but only a military sanctioned one, or else they don’t have the equipment that can withstand his strength.

Ever since the serum, Steve had been floating around humankind, but not feeling like a part of it. Responsible for it, yes. Worried for it, of course. But never quite _part_ of it.

(How the game has changed, hasn’t it?)

Now he can stand in the middle of a crowd and feel at peace.

Feel helpless and afraid and guilty.

So strange… that feeling all of this would somehow equate to _peace_ , in his mind.

He wants to give Natasha some space, so they both can think. They both can decide what to do. That’s why he’s almost never in the rooms anymore. For the sake of Natasha’s worries, he makes sure he remembers to eat, even if sometimes he east a bit too late. It is no amend at all, but it does quiet the anguish in Steve’s chest a little bit. Even if she might be angry, even if she hates him now – she worried before, and Steve knew why she was worried. So he eats.

He eats out, he goes to walks, he patrols. He thinks a lot, too.

Alone.

So it takes a while. It takes a while for Wanda have the opportunity to catch him when he’s coming back, after another long day out in the city, right when he’s coming up the stairs of the emergency exit. He thought he’d have a better chance not to alert anyone of his presence if he started coming and going through them, rather than the stairs right down the hall.

But apparently, Wanda knows him way too well to be fooled by his strategy.

“Steve?” She pushes herself off the wall with the shoulder she was leaning onto, her arms falling to her sides from where they were crossed over her chest as soon as she sees him. She’s waiting a few meters away, and their distance is the only reason why Steve can see her well enough so he can notice she’s wearing some clothes he’s never seen before. They are a little looser, but they look very different from the usual things Wanda wears. It looks a little more like what she wears to battle. She looks _grown._ “Can we talk for a moment?”

“Hey, Wanda.” Steve greets, stupidly, because he’s honestly feeling a caught off guard. “Your hair is different.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Wanda blinks for a second, surprised, and she twists a strand of her hair between her fingers, thoughtful. “Made it a little lighter. Wanted something different.”

Steve has nothing to say to that. It wasn’t even his intention to bring it up, he just… blurted it out as soon as he noticed it. He wonders if he’s really that out of it, or if this is just another small deflection that he has just spoken out loud by accident, so naturally he didn’t even realize he was doing. Whatever it was, it’s awkward. Wanda clears her throat a little bit, moving closer to Steve in light, soft steps, until she’s close enough so they can speak in a quiet tone.

She looks like she’s well.

She doesn’t look scared or sad anymore.

“I think we should talk. Has— Have you talked to Clint?” She asks, curiously.

“Yeah, he told me he’s leaving.” Steve simply replies.

“Yes. He called T’Challa this morning. They’ve arranged a way for him to get back safely.”

Steve wants to say he didn’t see this coming, but he did. He’s not angry. He knew it was going to happen. He only wishes it wasn’t necessary.

“And you… You’re okay with that, Wanda?” He then inquires, worried.

“I cannot stop him from doing what he thinks it’s best.” Wanda lets out a breathy laugh, something fondly exasperated, the same way Clint does. “I am afraid. I will always be afraid that they’ll put him back on the Raft. But I trust him.”

That’s all they can do at this point, isn’t it?

Trust him?

“What about you?” Steve insists. “I mean, you’ve been staying with Clint this entire time. If he’s going back… What would you like to do?”

Wanda takes in a deep breath, licking her lips and shifting her weight on her feet, seeming a little anxious, but her eyes locked steadily with Steve’s. “Yes, that’s why I think we should talk. I’ve been thinking about it, and… I want to try something.”

When Steve nods for her to continue, her anxiety seems to grow a little, and she starts picking at her nails in a nervous habit, a tick she had long before this, something Steve had seen her do when they still lived at the Compound. If she had a necklace on, she’d probably be fiddling with it too. “

"Vision—” She starts, and then immediately stops, because her voice sounds unsteady. After a beat, she starts again, and there is no hesitation in her voice this time. “Vision and I have been talking for a while. I mean… even before he came here.”

Steve frowns even though he is trying to keep his expression neutral and attentive. “You’ve been in touch?”

“Not exactly.” Wanda grunts. “It’s complicated.”

Steve keeps staring at her, because now he needs to hear the rest. Have they been talking this entire time? It’s… It’s sort of dangerous – not like Steve would _stop them_ , but –, it’s risky— But how? How had they done it and why, after all this time, Tony still doesn’t know—

“I can feel him. Through the stone.” Wanda explains, lightly touching her own forehead, right at the spot where Vision’s stone sits on his. “It’s how he finds me. And I can always find him back. When my powers started getting stronger, I started… _feeing_ him. Like a _presence_ at my side.”

“He said that’s how he found you.” Steve comments, feeling a little lightheaded. “Through… energy, or something like that. Something inside your powers.”

Wanda nods in confirmation, as if she had known this before.

“Something about the stone is strong enough to feel me, even when we’re apart. So we could _feel_ each other, I guess. But _seeing_ him is totally different.”

Steve can’t disagree, so he merely gives her a sympathetic smile.

“I want to spend some time with him.” Wanda explains. “I... I want to know he is there. After so many months only feeling him in my head, having him right there is—” She shakes her head minutely, her eyes closing for a second, as if she’s trying to disperse a bad thought. “I want him to stay a little longer.”

Steve knows where she is coming from, and he is not insensitive to her wishes. To completely honest, Steve doesn’t actually feel within himself any sort of desire to make her change her mind. Even still, he mentions an issue, because he needs to know if Wanda is _sure._

He won’t pretend he understands what exactly goes between Wanda and Vision, and what kind of feelings keeps bringing them closer to each other.

But if there is something Steve has proven during his months of anonymity, is that _feelings_ are things he doesn’t know how to deal with very well.  

“Wanda, he can’t stay forever.” Steve softly says. “He would be breaking the Accords—”

“I know.” Wanda quickly interrupts, determined. “I know. But if we can just meet, once in a while, somewhere hidden… I can move without being noticed and Vision can _disguise_ himself. He’s leaning how to do it. We’ve tried, I helped him practice, he can make himself look _human._ No one would know.”

Wanda stares at him with wide, expectant eyes, and something inside of him shudders, overwhelmed with the intensity of her gaze, with the strength of her determination. In a brief, quiet second, Steve has the distinct feeling that he is witnessing the turning point on Wanda’s life, right here, in this hallway, in a forgotten hotel in the beginning of the evening – a moment that could’ve been like any other, but now, it’s not anymore.

Never before Steve has had seen Wanda like he is seeing now. Although he might’ve thought he understood that she is not the child he insisted she was, _seeing_ it is making the idea awfully real, solid and sturdy in his mind, something that now doesn’t seem odd, it just seems _true._ She is not asking his permission. She is not even asking his opinion. What she is asking for is his support, but Steve suspects she’ll go through with it even if she doesn’t have it, because this is the choice she has made. Whether or not she realizes how deep her feelings for Vision run, she has decided to act on them, and she is telling Steve this not as his subordinate, only as his _friend._

She has made her choice.

Steve wonders if this, this mix between anxiety and sadness and hope and happiness… If his is what Clint feels, when he looks at Wanda. The feeling of realizing the child is gone and he must _let go_ , knowing all he can do for now is to feel _proud._

That’s why he asks, “So, what are you thinking of?”

Wanda looks a little baffled, but replies, “We wanted to go to Switzerland.” She says, a little uncertain. “Maybe Poland, I don’t know. We haven’t decided yet.”

“And after that?” Steve insists. “Will you stay there? With him?”

“No.” Wanda exhales, after barely a second of deliberation. “No, I can’t stay. We can’t stay there forever.”

And it sounds like it pains her to admit it. To recognize it. This barrier that still exists between them, not because of their own making but because of their circumstances, the violent separation they have been forced to endure, like the tragic lovers of an old story.

“You can come back and stay with us.” Steve offers, kindly. A _compromise._ Oddly, for a second Steve almost feels like he is making some sort of amend, a correction of a wrongdoing he hadn’t even known it was there before today. The offer feels more than simply giving Wanda a place to come back to. It feels… It feels like letting _go._ “For a while. Wait for things to settle down, wait for another opportunity, and then meet him again. What do you think?”

Wanda gives him a pleased, sheepish smirk, tilting her head to the side contentedly. “It could work.”

“You want to shake on it?” Steve jokes, and he is pleased to see that is enough to bring out her laugh, to make the last of her anxiety ebb away and allow only the gleeful hope to guide her from now on.

Wanda raises her eyebrows at him, humorously. “You won’t try to convince me this is a bad idea? That it’s not safe?”

“Wanda, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not one for having many safe ideas. _Ever._ ” Steve says, very matter-of-factly, and she gives him an exaggerated nod in agreement.

“I won’t stop you.” Steve assures. “Not if this is what you really want.”

“It is.” She admits, in a low whisper.

“Then I won’t stop you.” He repeats. "I can't blame you for wanting to be with him. You can go. We'll be close if you need us."

"Thank you, Steve." Wanda exhales, and her voice is overflowing with gratitude. "I was worried. Worried he wouldn't want to see me ever again. And now he's here, and I don't... I don't want to run away again."

"Then don't."

Wanda gives him a tiny nod, her eyes gleaming with happiness, her expression so grateful Steve doesn't know what to do with himself. So he just pats her shoulder, awkward but kind, and he gives her a tight smile as he passes her in the direction of the door to his own room, assured she will be fine. From now on, she will be fine.

As he's about to reach the door, however, Wanda's voice calls him back.

"Steve?"

Steve takes a step back, turning to her hesitantly, and the look in her eyes is... something he cannot explain.

"I know how you feel." Wanda says, gently. "I'm sorry. I wasn't using my powers on you, I promise. But I know guilt when I see it."

Steve gulps, keeping his lips very carefully closed, so he won’t give away anything that might try and dare to slip out of his lips. He wonders if it makes any difference. He wonders if Wanda can see through him all the same.

"But you have to remember." Wanda says. "If Vision can forgive me... Stark can forgive you."

 _It's different, Wanda_ , he wants to say.

_You two are in love._

But in the end, he doesn’t say a word.

 

(We all get irrational when someone we love gets hurt.)

 

He finds Natasha on the rooftop.

Steve isn’t foolish enough to believe this to be a coincidence – after all, if there is one thing Natasha is very skilled at is hiding, as if she can make herself invisible any time she pleases, like a ghost. She has no trouble sneaking around and avoiding being spotted, even by someone with enhanced senses like Steve, so he knows better than believing she isn’t exactly where she intends to be, at all times, every time.

She is waiting for him.

“Hey.” He greets carefully, knowing she has noticed his presence even thought she still has her back turned to him. She is watching the city line far ahead, illuminated only by the lights that come from it,

“Hey.” She greets back after a pause, and yet she does not turn around.

Steve waits for a few seconds, wondering if she will do anything besides just stand there, and when she doesn’t he decides to step forward, trying to keep his steps light and silent, the atmosphere of the cold night and the fake anonymity that the darkness grants them feeling far too sacred to be disturbed by the loud sound of his boots.

He stops by Natasha’s side, his shoulder to hers, and they both let their eyes get lost in the sky and the dim stars they can see above them, almost being overshadowed by the brightness of the city below.

It feels like existing in nothingness.

“Are we going to fight?” Steve whispers, his voice reluctant.

“That depends.” Natasha states plainly. “Any other secrets you’re hiding?”

“That was my last one.” Steve admits, feeling a little ashamed.

For the first time, Natasha turns her head a little, only enough so she can stare at him out of the corner or her eye for a long, uncomfortable second, before she gives a curt nod and says, harshly, “Good.”

Steve grits his teeth, more out of a painful habit then indignation, and he shifts his weight a little, uselessly, as if that was at all the cause of his discomfort. After a deep breath, he says, “I’m sorry, Nat.”

“You’re just saying that, or do you actually mean it? Because I think I have to start doubting every word you say, Rogers, because who knows what kind of thing you might be hiding next?”

“Nat, please.” Steve begs, feeling too raw, too exposed to start another fight. “I’m _sorry_. I _mean_ it.”

She doesn’t say anything back, and Steve doesn’t know if she believes him or not.

It’s an awful position to be in, not knowing where he stands with her anymore. Steve recognizes he is not as hopeful and trusting as he once was, even if that trust had always been very fragile wherever governments and too-powerful institutions are concerned, but when SHIELD fell, even if that seemed like the confirmation of all of Steve’s fears about the rotten state of the system, through it all, he had _Natasha._

The idea that she might distrust him completely now is shattering, it’s _distressing_ , and Steve wishes this wasn’t so _fucking hard_ for him, to admit that he is in pain and he will do anything to get her to stay.

She makes an annoyed click with her tongue, shaking her head minutely and raising her shoulders in a tense position. Steve can see that there’s an entire conversation going on inside her head, a struggle for what to say next, or if she should say anything at all; And Steve looks at her face and waits like a miserable soul, as if he was begging her not to break his heart.

Only a thousand times worse. Much, _much_ more painful.

The time slows down, and the silence seems to stretch into forever. Steve tries very hard not to allow himself to think of cold, of bare walls, of video static and a _broken sob_.

“I never thought you’d do something like this.” She says, like it’s a confession, a string of words she’d never uttered aloud if she had any other choice. “Out of all of us, the only one I thought it would be incapable of doing something like that would be you.”

Steve chuckles wryly. “Don’t meet your heroes, isn’t that the saying?”

“You’re not one of my heroes, Rogers, don’t think too highly of yourself.” Natasha snaps, but her words lack any bite.

She only wants to keep herself distant. She doesn’t want to let Steve in her heart again.

“You know who was my hero? Peggy Carter.” She softly admits. “I know it’s weird. The Russian spy, admiring the British-slash-American sweetheart? The _enemy_. But when Clint convinced me to join SHIELD, and I learned about her, I felt…” she shrugs. “Like I had just met someone like me.”

Steve’s mind is suddenly flooded with soft, worn-out memories of Peggy, like old photographs, in muted tones and frayed at the edges, but so loved and so close to his heart that he can’t help but smile a little, a longing that never quite faded making itself known inside his chest, the marks of a love that faded, but never disappeared, and probably never will.

He also remembers Natasha coming to see him in Peggy’s funeral in London, _her hero_ , apparently, and softly saying _I didn’t want you to be alone._

(Oh, Natasha.)

Natasha Romanov, a woman with much more heart that any of them had even given her credit for.

“Not like we had a lot of things in common. Motivation, for one – we were very different on that.” She chuckles humorlessly, a sound that comes off more from her nose than from her mouth, continuing over Steve’s emotional thoughts without hesitating. “But she was a woman who knew how to keep secrets, and she kept them well, and I _knew_ what that felt like. I admired her for it.”

And then she turns to Steve, and her eyes look so _hurt_ that Steve feel himself falling quickly into despair, because he never, _never_ wanted to cause _this._ “And I _trusted_ you because I though you were the exact opposite of that. I needed someone who wouldn’t say a lie at every five words that came out of their mouths. And from all I’ve heard, I always thought that would be _you._ ”

Steve averts his gaze, humiliated, and says nothing at all.

“It’s disappointing, Rogers, I have to admit.” Natasha throws her hair off her face with a quick gesture of her neck, trying to hide her face from Steve by looking forward again, but Steve can still hear the almost inaudible sniffle she makes anyway. “I don’t like being wrong.”

“I know you don’t believe me” He repeats, dejectedly. “But I am sorry.”

“I believe you.” She curtly says. “I’m just not sure if it’s enough.”

And neither does Steve.

He simply doesn’t know where to go from here. He doesn’t know anymore.

“Why did you do it?” Natasha asks after long minutes of silence, both of them still staring at the city, for so long that all the lights are now blurring into one single image, one giant flash of brightness, that somehow still looks so dim from the top of this cold roof. “Why didn’t you tell him?”

Steve could give her so many reasons. He had _told himself_ he had so many reasons. In a life like theirs, the excuse of not having time to do something is almost too easy to use, almost like cheating, because their time never truly belongs to them. It belongs to the world, to the _universe_ , to whatever bizarre circumstances may arrive and make their presence necessary. And they always have to be ready. It’s so easy to fall into a routine where he can just jump from one mission to another, occupying his thoughts only with the next objective, the next win, and never straying away from that until it is too late.

He could lie all tell her it was that. But she will know it’s not true.

He can also tell her what he told Sam. He can try to explain to her what Bucky means to him, what _saving him_ means to Steve, and try to get her to understand. If Sam is right and Natasha doesn’t trust Bucky – and he probably is –, this might be what Natasha needs to hear. Maybe, just maybe, if Steve can allow himself to open up about this one more time, to confide in her with this, she might understand.

But this is not about Bucky. That’s not why she is hurt.

This is about _Tony._

Steve could try to explain in many, many ways.

But he opts for the truth.

“I don’t know.” He confesses, and his voice fucking _cracks_ and it’s horrible and it hurts but it is the truth. “I never… I never thought it would get this far.”

“And how far did you think it would get?”

“I don’t know.” Steve exhales shakily. “I so was focused in getting Bucky back, I never thought about what would happen after I did. It had never even occurred to me that Bucky and Tony might meet someday. I’ve been looking for him by myself, only with Sam’s help sometimes, and Tony wasn’t even at the Compound anymore… They were two parts of my life I never thought would meet.”

“God, why are you like this?” Natasha shifts her weight, swaying left to right for a brief second, as if she’s having trouble staying still as she listen to this, crossing her arms as if she’s trying to keep herself from doing something stupid. Her voice sounds annoyed and tired at the same time. “You and him, you are _exactly_ the same.”

The comment sounds strange and off place, and Steve doesn’t know what to make of it. “I don’t know how you were able to draw that conclusion from this—”

“Of course you don’t.” She scoffs. “It’s _incredible_ the mess you two can create without even realizing. It’s _exhausting._ How I thought you two could get over this by yourselves is beyond me, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

After that outburst, Natasha paces around a little, taking in deep breaths to calm herself down, and Steve watches her walk a wobbly line to the edge of the rooftop with his heart heavy, wanting to follow her so they can be side by side again, but feeling himself nearly rooted in place, his entire body unwilling to move, marble and stone instead of flesh.

It’s— It’s a little hurtful, actually, even though Steve guesses that it’s partially true. It’s the implication that Natasha had thought they would get over their differences on their own and they had _disappointed_ her is what makes Steve feel bad, because something so simple as _getting along_ , and they couldn’t do it. Is there such a thing as being so different that they seem alike? Steve doesn’t think they are similar, that’s why it’s so difficult, that’s why is hurts so bad. Because Tony is a damn mystery and Steve has tried to understand him, but he never managed it, and _that's why_ they are the way they are.

Maybe it is really hard on them. Steve might be the leader, but he is the leader not because of some formal arrangement, but because they all allowed him to be so. All of them, including Tony. Tony, who said he didn’t work well in a team, had given Steve the chance to call the shots and he had never went back on his word. But he had been the first to know, hadn’t he? About the Avengers. And he was the one helping fund their initiative, designing them gadgets, helping in building them a new home. Steve might be their leader, but Tony is their _bedrock_ , and if they _fight_ , they would fall apart—

_Did._

They _did_ fell apart.

All of this, all this suffering… It’s caused by the two of them. Not the Accords, not Bucky.

_The messes they create._

All of this wouldn’t have happened if they could have trusted one another.

Natasha’s shoulders drop again, as the quick anger dissipates from within her, leaving only the lingering ache of sadness behind. Steve watches her and for the very first time, he realizes how _tired_ she is, almost as much as he is, and he thinks _since when?_

Since when they have been hurting her with this?

Since when they have been stopping the Avengers from becoming the safe haven Natasha so desperately needs?

_For how long have they been hurting them?_

“Were we always so bad for each other?” Steve asks in a whisper, knowing that despite their slight distance, the roof is so silent she will be able to hear him perfectly clear.

Natasha makes a thoughtful pause, and when she speaks, her voice is softer, kinder, almost a little embarrassed. None of her anger is there anymore. “Are you asking me as a teammate or as a friend?”

Steve shrugs, out of his dept, even though she cannot see it. “I guess both.”

“As a teammate, no.” Natasha clarifies. “You actually complement each other. God knows I’d never say it to Tony, but I trusted you two, together.”

“Sounds romantic.” Steve says flatly, because that’s as close as a joking tone his voice will get at this moment.

“Yeah, Cap. You two really made heart eyes at each other at every chance you got. It was disgusting to watch.” Natasha replies, equally blunt. And then she continues, after a soft sigh, “I mean it, you know? You are very different people. You are practical when he’s rambling, he improvises when you don’t have time to plan. You saved his life, and he saved yours. And you two saved ours. Every time.”

“Sounds like it was good.” Steve distractedly says, losing himself a little to the memories he has of times that he feels like were simpler, the base, instinctual, almost animal satisfaction of being capable of coordinating a powerful attack with Tony without needing to say a single word, the sheer fulfillment of _knowing someone had his back._ He liked it. He misses it. “Wonder where we went wrong.”

“Are you asking for an actual moment in time or you’re just feeling introspective? Because I have a few guesses, but you’re not going to like them.” Natasha asks, and Steve even dares to imagine she is smirking a little, even if it’s frail and a little forced, but he will take it anyway.

He follows her then. He dares. He approaches even slower than the first time, allowing her plenty of time to turn around and tell him to back off if she wants to, but she doesn’t. She allows him to come closer and Steve, even more daring yet, dares to _hope_ , to hope this will somehow end up fine, against all the damned odds.

“Okay. You gave me your opinion as a teammate.” He says, ignoring her attempt at a taunt, still far too worried to allow their banter to deflect him from this. Steve is not running from this conversation. Not anymore. “And as a friend? Were we… You think we were dangerous? To each other?”

“As a friend?” Natasha says after a heavy pause. “Yes. You were. Both of you.”

_Oh, God._

(You already knew.)

_But—_

(C’mon, Cap, _you knew._ )

( _Why are you hurting, you knew._ )

“I guess we never learned how to function well as a team. All of us, together.” Natasha explains, and Steve doesn’t know if she doesn’t see of if she simply ignores him, the last word she pronounces makes him feel like he is being _gutted_ , something sharp and deadly twisting into his insides, a burning _shame_ and _sorrow_ curling deep inside his belly. “I mean, we could fight, but it took us a very long time to actually talk. Do you remember? We’ve barely spoken before you joined SHIELD, after the New York attack. That was five months after the battle – and we were already putting our lives at each other’s hands.”

Steve does remember. Mostly, he remembers how many punching bags he destroyed between missions, how many miles he ran, how many times he had wanted to pick up a sketchbook but did not, but he remembers. He remembers how lonely he had been. And then, suddenly, there was SHIELD, and there was Natasha.

“Yeah. It sounds crazy when you say it like that.” He agrees, looking back and realizing how little time they had actually spent together before Steve joined SHIELD.

“It is crazy.” Natasha counters. “I’ve never trusted anyone like that. It took me two years to trust _Clint_ , and he was the one to take me to SHIELD instead of killing me.”

“So why did you?” Steve inquires confusedly. “Why did you trust us?”

“I didn’t.” Natasha corrects. “Not until the battle was over.”

_How is that—_

“You jumped off my shield into an alien ship flying over seventy miles an hour.” Steve points out, as if she could have _forgotten_ something like that.

“Like that was the craziest thing I’ve ever done in a fight.” Natasha raises one eyebrow at him, cockily, before stopping and shaking her head mournfully. “Trust is difficult for people like me, Steve. For people like us.”

Us.

Not us, the team.

Us. Both of them. Natasha and Steve.

“Why would you fight with people you don’t trust?” Steve asks breathily.

“Did you trust everyone you fought with?” Natasha questions in return. “Did you trust me, from the very beginning?”

He didn’t.

( _Do you trust me?_ )

( _I do now._ )

And it had been the truth.

“You don’t have to trust someone to work with them. I know that better than anyone else.” Natasha shrugs. “Now... I guess you do too.”

But Steve has never wanted this. He has _never_ wanted this.

It shouldn’t be hard to _trust_.

How could Steve simply trust like that? He couldn’t, could he? He couldn’t—How would he place his life, his strength, his convictions in the hands of a world he doesn’t belong to, where everyone is hiding a mask or five, and when Steve had always been so quick to _judge_ , and so slow to _forgive_? With the way he takes disappointment to the heart, wears it on his face with no qualms or attempts to ease the blow on those he inflicts it on, whether a friend or an enemy? With the way he— He has relied only on himself for almost his entire life, and he’s so damned afraid of repeating the agony that was caused by Bucky’s apparent death that doesn’t allow anyone to come as close to his heart as he should?

He used to be better than this, didn’t he? He used to have more faith in humanity, he used to drive himself forward with the idea that the world is _good,_ that people can be good; Not that he can only count on himself to know what is right or wrong.

When did it start being all about dismantling agendas and suspecting everyone? When did this paradox of trust and skepticism nested itself inside of him, and how the hell had he never realized it?

Steve used to think his biggest flaw for a life as a superhero was that he trusted too much.

Now, it seems like the problem is actually the complete opposite of that.

Natasha cocks her head to the side, looking at him, as if she knows exactly what he’s thinking, but her face betrays absolutely nothing.

 _You trust Natasha_ , a voice says in the back of his head. It’s not Tony’s, nor Natasha’s, nor anyone else’s. It’s his. And it’s curious and accusing, malicious and gentle, all at once, and Steve doesn’t understand.

He trusts Natasha.

( _Why_ do you trust Natasha?)

Natasha would follow him into hell if he asked her to. He knows this.

(You trust her. The spy. The double-agent.)

(You trusted _Sam._ )

(You barely knew him, but you trusted him.)

(God, Cap, you trusted _Wanda._ )

(You trusted everyone you shouldn’t.)

Quick to judge.

(Except for me.)

_Slow to forgive._

“I thought I trusted him.” Steve confesses, and although he tries to explain, the words get stuck and refuse to be spoken, too big, too heavy to pass through his lips, to leave the encasing safety of Steve’s chest.

How could he explain it to her? The mixed feelings he has about Tony? Something that is not quite friendship, but it’s also not rivalry, and it is not trust but it _is_ , at the same time. Knowing he knows Tony way too well in some aspects, and also knowing he is a complete mystery in others. Trusting him, but being afraid to do so, wanting to trust _more_ and yet refusing to do it—

Steve thought that it would be enough, even thought Tony still made his head spin with so many conflicting thoughts running around at the same time, he thought what they had had been good enough. He had been happy _enough._

Why hadn’t it been enough?

“I was horrible to him.” Natasha interrupts his thoughts, and she does it on purpose, by the way her eyes are locked on Steve’s face with an unyielding conviction, determined to say this out loud, determined for Steve to _listen._  “Tony. I said things— I assumed he knew. And when I did that, I got this idea in my head that was _completely_ wrong, and I left him there for the wrong reasons.”

Steve doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She had never told him what happened before she left. He wonders if this— If this is the reason why she’s here, the _real_ reason, because Steve doesn’t believe for one _second_ that Natasha ran away for any sort of apprehension over the Accords. Natasha doesn’t fear governments, and she sure as hell doesn’t fear _Ross._ Whatever reason she came to him for, the Accords _wasn’t it._

“What happened?” Steve asks almost inaudibly, a worried frown on his face.

“I thought he knew.” Natasha only half-explains, her minds lost in memories, obviously _painful_ memories, because she isn’t making a lot of sense to Steve. “And it didn’t make sense. I thought: If you know about Barnes and you believe Steve when he says Barnes is innocent, why are you acting like this? Why suddenly all this _jealousy_ , if you _knew_ Steve would do something crazy to save him if he needed to?”

Something in his stomach tightens at Natasha’s words, weirdly anxious, but she just keeps going before he can say a word.

“I thought he was being ridiculous. Acting out. But he wasn’t - He just _didn’t know._ ” She sighs, so tightly and tensely it almost sounds like a whine. “God, I got _everything_ wrong.”

The remorse in her face is so raw and real that Steve’s heart aches to give her some sort of comfort, but he doesn’t know how. He cannot lie to her and say it’s ok, because she knows full well it’s not.

“It was my fault.” It’s all he can say, because nothing else he might say could make this better.

She chuckles derisively, rolling her eyes. “It’s not _your_ fault _I_ insulted him, Cap.”

( _Idiots._ )

(All of us.)

“Could we ever fix this? Fix us?” Steve asks, pleadingly, feeling a surge of desperation of reassurance he doesn’t know where it comes from, all he knows is that it’s so overwhelming he almost starts shaking.

“I don’t know.” Natasha replies honestly. “I hope so.”

“Aren’t we too dangerous?”

Natasha scoffs, throwing him a knowing look. “You like danger, Rogers. It keeps you on your toes. You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Steve can’t really argue with her on that matter. That, at least, he knows to be true.

She knows it too. Natasha seems to know him far better than he knows himself these days, and he wonders what else can she see about him that he still cannot. Steve almost wants to ask, but he’s not sure if he’d like to hear whatever she would have to say. He doesn’t want to put her in that position.

She has reasons of her own. She has feelings of her own. There’s only so much Steve can ask of her, given how uncaringly he has treated her in occasions in the past.

But there is one thing— Just _one_ , he still desperately wants to know.

“Why did you come, Nat?” That’s all, that’s all he wants to know, and he promises he’ll shut up about it after this. They will never argue about this again. He only needs to know, he just needs to be sure, because although he is so, so grateful that Natasha is here, he still has no idea _why._ He won’t ask her what she said to Tony that was so insulting. He won’t drag those horrid memories back up so he can hurt her.

But _this? This_ he needs to know.

“I know it’s not that simple. You wouldn’t back down because you’re a Russian spy. You didn’t back down when SHIELD fell, why would you back down now?”

Natasha makes a pause, considering her answer, before turning to him in an elegant gesture and looking straight into his eyes. “Because you needed my help, Cap. You and Tony? You two don’t _listen._ It’s the worst part about this. The whole world was screaming at us and we were too busy screaming with each other to find a way out of this mess. And he wasn’t having it, so I thought I might try with you.”

It’s an answer, but at the same time, it’s _not_ , and Steve is about to press her when she merely shrugs and admits, “I guess I needed to make sure you wouldn’t hate him.”

And _that_ makes Steve’s chest hurt _so bad_ , his heart beating so fast it sounds like the wings of a hummingbird, anxious and desperate and afraid, trapped inside a cage. “I would never hate him.”

 _You can’t know that,_ Shuri’s voice echoes in his ear, bold and firm, and a shiver runs through Steve’s spine like a lightning bolt.

“Maybe not. How about resent?” Natasha offers, kindly. “Cap... Tony gets so deep under your skin you don’t even realize how much. I didn’t understand it at first, but now I do. Do you know why we are still here? Why we are still running, even though I know you don’t give a _shit_ about Ross?”

Because—

_Because—_

“Tony.” Natasha clarifies. “You’re waiting for him to ask you to come back, aren’t you? You won’t come back, not if he doesn’t ask you to.”

“Not unless I’m needed.” Steve explains, but even to himself it sounds a bit like a lie. And because he has no other reason to hide, not anymore, not after these heart wrenching revelations they have spoken to each other, he confesses something else, in a low whisper, “Not if he doesn’t forgive me.”

Natasha stares at him for a long moment, looking for something in his expression, maybe; And she probably finds it, because then she replies, in the softest of tones:

“He will.”

And Steve wants to believe that, he wants to, so badly, but—

“I hurt him.” He points out, blankly, as if the admission isn’t killing him from the inside out.

“We all hurt each other.” Natasha argues, but not as if she’s trying to make it better. It’s simply a statement of the truth. “But we all can do wrong when we’re trying to make things right. Tony knows this better than anyone. Trust me, Cap… He will forgive you.”

_Please, let it be true._

_Please, let her be right._

_Please, please, please._

_I want to go **home**._

“I’m sorry, Nat. I’m sorry for lying.” Steve says, his voice cracking at the edges, his vision getting blurry and his breath starting to sound heaved, and he is panicking and he can’t stop it.

“I know you are.” Natasha steps a little closer, with a sad, sad smile on her face. “But it’s not me who needs to hear it.”

And she pats him on the shoulder, soft and gentle, a small reassurance being all she is able to give him now. Her hand lingers for a moment, hesitant, and they stare at each other for a split second before they both visibly crumble and pull closer for a hug, their breaths shaky and their bodies cold, and Steve remembers the only other time they hugged like this, right after Peggy’s funeral, and he suddenly wants to _cry._

She lets him go with a nod, steps around him and leaves, her low heels making muted sounds against the floor, slowly getting farther and farther away until Steve can’t hear her anymore. And it takes a long time. She leaves the rooftop and goes down the stairs, at least two levels down, and even so, Steve can’t bring himself to move.

For the first time in two years, the burn in his eyes becomes a little too much to bear, and a tear escapes and runs down his face before he even has the strength to wipe it off.

 

“I’m sorry.”

“What?” Bucky asks confusedly, his voice sounding weirdly dazed through the call. “What for?”

“For what happened in Siberia.” Steve clarifies mournfully.

Bucky makes a sad sound, a hopeless, quiet little thing. “Steve…”

“Zemo’s plan wouldn’t have worked if I had told Tony earlier.” Steve insists, needing Bucky to hear this. Needing to _say_ this. Even he can barely speak, even if the words sound short and painful to pronounce, he has to say them. “I hurt him, and I put you at risk. I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok.” Bucky assures after a tense pause. “It’s over.”

“I just wanted you to know.”

“I know, Stevie.” Bucky kindly says. “I know.”

 

(He counts Tony.)

 

(What else can he do?)

 

It all comes back to him.

Somehow, it all comes back to Tony.

Should he be surprised about it? He isn’t, really. Somewhere deep inside he always knew, he always felt like his relationship with Tony would be something he would never be completely at ease with; Something, that someday, might… _Would_ get out of his control.  

Why wouldn’t he assume that? From the moment they first met they clashed, heavy impact at full speed, destruction and chaos, snarls and stares and a jolt of electricity so strong Steve can still remember how the hairs on his arms stood in shocking goosebumps when Tony took a step closer; Right in his face, his eyes burning in rage and defiance, gleaming like the whiskey he was addicted to.

He remembers it very clearly, because Steve had never lived anything like that before. Not being stared down by someone who clearly wants to beat him up, no; But being so shaken himself to the point losing control, to let his ego blind him so completely that he had been ready to goad a supposed _ally_ into a fight.

It was… It was unsettling, in the most nerve-wrecking and volatile way possible, all madness and raging emotions and an explosive reaction he just couldn’t contain.

Part of him still believes the scepter is partially at fault. At least, it’s what he likes to tell himself when the guilt feels too heavy, when he feels the bitterness becoming too great and starts making him sick; It is a nice lie, enough to make his breathing steady, but it’s not enough to make him feel _better._  

Because there is _no_ denying that not all of that was the scepter’s fault. The things he said, the things he thought, that was all _Steve_ ; He called Tony selfish, unreliable, _not a hero_ , to his face, and he hadn’t felt one ounce of regret. Steve was goading him to a fight on purpose. And Tony snapped back— Christ, he snapped back, and told Steve he was no better than a lab rat, and Steve felt so angry, because _who the fuck was this entitled, rich son of a bitch_ to act like he knew anything about putting himself in danger to save others?

Steve _despised_ Tony in that moment. He cannot lie to himself, he truly, truly did. In that moment, that single second in the Helicarrier, when Tony walked right into his personal space and Steve growled at him, Steve was no more than an _animal,_ aching to sink his teeth and his nails into Tony’s neck, make him stand down, make him humble, make him _listen._

And that was _scary_ , because when had Steve become this type of man?

How much of that had been the scepter? How much of that had been _him_?

That’s how it all started, wasn’t it? That’s why they can’t function together.

No matter that Steve now knows that he was wrong. Because he was. Only hours after their fight, Tony sacrificed himself and carried a nuke on his back inside a wormhole to save the city; Fuck, he _died_ saving the city, and Steve watched him do it, so unsure about how to feel, but knowing he had been _so wrong._

When Hulk had laid Tony on the ground before them, his body still and his Arc Reactor dark, Steve had felt _failure_ so profoundly, so remorseful of being so unjust to a man who had just proved himself to be a _good man,_ someone that Steve might have liked to have beside him in battle, and he felt like he would regret forever for not having the chance to tell Tony that.

And when Tony’s Reactor flared back to life, the _sigh_ that left Steve’s lips had been so deep and so relieved—

_He was alive._

_He was a good man, he’s a hero and he is alive._

It had been so good, so mind-blowing to know they had won, they were alive, _all of_ them, that he didn’t even realize—

Steve didn’t apologize.

How fucking terrible is that, but he didn’t. He helped Thor pick up Tony from the floor, carried him to the Shawarma place, shared a meal with him. Gave him tired smiles and a pat on the shoulder. Gave him a nod. Shook his hand.

But he never said the words, did he?

He never said _I’m sorry._

God, how _fucked up_ is that?

And Steve—

Steve wants—

Steve has _so many amends_ to make to Tony. And he could be selfish and remind himself, over and over again, until he felt the bitterness and the anger start to boil again and make him feel hot with fury, that _Tony also has some apologies to make._ He could remind himself that Tony still attacked Bucky, that Tony still had gone behind their backs and made Ultron with Bruce, that he still kept Wanda inside the Compound against her will…

But he won’t. He won’t do that. He doesn’t need to remind himself of all of those things – he _knows_ , and he’s not forgetting them anytime soon. But this is not a competition. Steve has to stop believing this is all about their egos and trying to one up each other, because it’s _not._ It’s not about who hurt the other more. It’s just a matter that they _hurt each other_ , again and again, and it never ends.

Tony has such a big influence on their team – He is the other half of what used to hold them together, and why had Steve never taken the time to make sure they were _ok?_ That they could plan together, train together, work together?

_Together._

It sounds like a joke now, that word.

_Together._

In truth, they had been _suffocating_ each other.

It’s not like Steve hadn’t respected Tony, because he did. He respects Tony’s intellect, his drive, his strength, he admires Tony in the same intensity he is sometimes aggravated by him, by his all over the place thoughts, his recklessness, his _stubbornness._ In _this_ aspect, he supposes, he can see the similarities Natasha accused them of. They are both men with far too much pride and far too little willingness to give in, and they fight against one another with as much frequency as they fight together.

Is that wrong? Was Steve supposed to have thought about it another way?

He can’t. He can’t _imagine_ what it would be like. He can’t imagine a world in which they would simply _not_ argue about everything. They think too differently. And Steve had once thought that was the problem, _that’s why they would never get along,_ because Tony would complain and make jokes out of everything and it drove Steve _insane._ Even if he knew that it was all part of his public persona. Even though he _knew_ Tony would give his absolute _all_ whenever it was necessary, and that _should’ve been enough._

But sometimes, when it’s not about a fight, when it’s not a about a battle, but it’s a about a _choice,_ they never find a common ground.

In battle, most often than not, they somehow get by, they are good and they _work_ together, they are an absolute _powerhouse_ and Steve doesn’t know if it’s instinct or luck – But he doesn’t _care_ , all that he cared for as that it worked.

But whenever they fight about something else, about something like… Something like Wanda, or Ultron, or the Accords, something that divides them not by their strategy, but by their _ideals,_ that is the one place where they can never, _never_ work it out.

Why can’t they—

Why can’t they _work it out? Why?_

(Because I’m always being _reckless._ )

He is, but so is Steve, isn’t he? Steve is also being reckless.

It’s their ego again, the fighting to see who can win over the other, who is faster, _who knows best_ , who’s right and who’s wrong and they will never find the common ground if they never admit they are wrong—

And to be honest, _God,_ Steve had never wanted the to change. He could do without the ego, without the ridiculous posturing and the fighting over who knows best, of course he wouldn’t miss it; But at the same time, he _would._ He _does._ Because it’s _not_ the malice and the mocking he misses, but the banter, the feeling of always being on edge, of being kept on his toes at every single goddamned second, knowing that, at any moment, Tony Stark could turn his world upside down.

Tony is everything Steve associates with the future. He is loud and he is brash, obnoxious and incredible and fast and incomprehensible, and Steve fears it and adores it in equal measure.

It’s like pulling himself in two different directions. Refusing to let himself be embraced by the future, but at the same time, being _unable_ to resist it. It’s the addiction in him. It’s the habit, _the way of the soldier,_ moving forward without looking back – you don’t live this kind of life without consequences. Without getting tangled in messy feelings. And Steve’s feelings are as messy and as confusing as they can possibly get.

Tony is an inexplicable mystery to him. In turn, Steve’s feelings for him are just as chaotic, just as disordered and confusing, and the more Steve thinks about it, the _less_ he understands.

Steve likes to be alert. He likes _danger._ Natasha had been right. Maybe more than he should, but he can’t lie and say that he doesn’t, because he _likes_ it. Not because he enjoys the feeling of being near-death, nothing so morbid – But… Steve likes feeling _challenged._ He always has. Even he was fifty pounds soaking wet, Steve had always, _always_ relished in the feeling of his entire body shutting down all unnecessary strain and distractions and ache, his focus turning razor sharp, zeroing in one objective and one objective alone, never allowing him to stray from it. It’s the damned pendulum of his life. Far too much of _nothing_ , or way too much of only _one_ thing. He sometimes wishes he wasn’t like this, because he can’t have a _normal life_ like this, and sometimes he _wants to_ – but even thought Steve doesn’t exactly do this for _fun,_ that doesn’t mean he doesn’t _like_ it, that he doesn’t get feels _good_ when he does it, because it makes him feel like he has a _purpose._

Besides the fight, besides the battle, _Tony_ is the only thing that can make him feel like that.

He used to take it in stride. Maybe. For a short while. Besides the incident with the scepter, Steve and Tony had worked well figuring out how to deal with the Chitauri, and Steve has to admit that when Tony told him to call the shots, a weird thrill of _something_ went through Steve, a confusing wave of satisfaction and gratitude and pride and duty, something that Steve hadn’t felt since 1945 since the Commandos had trusted him to guide them into battle.

Steve is not a leader by choice, exactly, but he is good at it. But he only _feels_ like a leader when the people who call him that _trust him._

At that moment, Tony had trusted him, they _all_ had trusted him, and Steve had felt at _home_ , just as he had with the Commandos. He didn’t mind that him and Tony were opposites, he didn’t care that they thought differently, because the _complemented_ each other, and Steve could use that, he’d like that, he wanted to _keep_ that.

_What the hell happened to us?_

Was it… Was it Ultron? Was it the fall of SHIELD? What exactly had made Steve close himself off so tightly that the next time him and Tony clashed, he hadn’t felt exhilaration, but _bitterness?_

Steve was their leader, but he was never their _ruler._ When— When did the idea of Tony confronting him started to sound like a disappointment, and not a challenge?  Why? Because he messed up? Because of Ultron? It was a _mistake._ Steve had been disappointed, yes, but it was a _mistake,_ it shouldn’t have made such a huge fucking dent in their relationship as it did.

Was it that, or the fact that they never solved it? Maybe. Probably. It had been so bad, they were all so out of it— Thor had nearly _choked_ Tony in front of him, and Steve hadn’t said a word. Tony apologized, and Steve didn’t say a _word._ When did – When did he become this man, the man who allows this kind of thing to happen and thinks it’s okay? Thinks that it’s justifiable punishment, that _punishment_ would be _acceptable_ at _all_ , when all they should be doing is working together?

(Self-righteous.)

( _Dangerously arrogant,_ Steve Rogers.)

When did he allow this distrust to sink its claws so deep inside of him that he allowed it to _destroy them?_

He would have accused Tony of this too, once. Accused him of not trusting them. But then – Steve remembers _Wanda_ , Wanda apparently messing with Tony’s mind inside the HYDRA base, something that Steve had never known, and now he doesn’t know how to feel about it. He could have accused him from the mess with the Accords, too. Accused him of being blinded by his grief, of not considering the repercussions the Accords would have—

Tony’s fault. _Steve’s_ fault.

Why is he so damned adamant to make all of this someone’s _fault?_

It doesn’t matter. Steve had been so determined to make Tony see that he was right, that he _knew better_ —

(Your desire to make me see that you are right.)

(Doesn’t mean you care for me.)

(You just care about being right.)

But that’s not true _at all_ , isn’t it? Steve doesn’t know better. Steve’s way is not the right way. Neither is Tony’s. _There is no right way,_ and they will _always fight,_ they will always think differently about how they should act and what should they choose, and Steve should be _happy_ about that, not betrayed, not angered, not _disappointed._

What did Steve think he would accomplish, trying to _subdue_ Tony Stark’s will? His drive, his strength, his _stubbornness_ , that Steve knows so _fucking well?_

The founding Avenger, and Steve tried to _suffocate_ him instead of learning to work with him.

He is a goddamned idiot.

He thinks back to all the times he ignored Tony’s attempts of reconciliation, and he feels bile rising up on his throat, rancid and burning and _awful_ , red hot shame curling in his guts and anger flaring deep inside his chest, his nails carving crescents in his palms before he can even stop them. All the times Tony had tried to convince Steve to listen about the Accords, and Steve brushed him off. At the time, he thought it was an attempt at manipulation. How— How fucking ridiculous was that? God, how could he ever think that Tony would _do_ something like this? He hadn’t been trying to tell them a sob story to make them feel pity, he had been in _pain,_ and Steve had fucking _brushed it off._ Tony _pleaded_ him to sign and he _laughed_ – not to mock him, not on purpose, but Steve _had_ thought that Tony was being _naïve,_ he was being reckless and he wasn’t thinking and Steve had been disbelieving and sad and _disappointed at him—_

_God, **fuck** , when had they become **this**!?_

And Steve ignored him, in favor of Bucky’s words. In favor of Zemo’s threat. They have always been stronger together, _they should fight together_ , but they had both been so determined to just _do what they thought was best_ and _not listen_ , that they just let Helmut Zemo break them apart.

Steve had given his mission priority for _nothing._

He had walked straight into a _trap._

(What would you have done?)

(Huh?)

(Five Winter Soldiers against the two of you.)

(Even then, you’re not thinking _straight._ )

(So eager to throw yourself into the harm’s way you don’t even weight your odds.)

_There was no time to weight my odds._

(But there was time to recruit a bunch of people to beat me up.)

_It wouldn’t have been necessary if you had come with me—_

(And do what? How would I explain the fact that I also betrayed the Accords and aided an assassin wanted by ninety countries and his self-righteous, hard-headed best sidekick?)

(Someone had to deal with it.)

(And it wasn’t gonna be _you._ )

(Because _you_ had _your mission._ )

(Screw whoever was left behind to deal with the garbage.)

_Shit._

_God… When did we become this?_

(When did I become the one who cares about the plan)

(And you the one who just charges ahead and doesn’t care who you’ll hit?)

Steve had never wanted to hurt Tony. Not on purpose. Not consciously.

But that doesn’t mean he tried to _stop himself_ from letting it happen.

From _causing it_ himself.

Siberia had—

(Don’t you dare.)

(C’mon.)

( _C’mon._ )

( _Face me._ )

Siberia had been the _last straw._ The culmination of all of Steve’s ignorance, of his ego and his impulses, the proof that his judgment _had been skewed_ , that Tony had been _right about that_ , and his goddamned tendencies of taking it all to himself and making choices for others finally, _finally_ making so very clear that they wouldn’t come without _consequences._

(What were you thinking?)

What was he thinking – When he shoved his shield into Tony Stark’s chest?

( _What were you thinking!?_ )

What was he thinking?

He was—

_Stop fighting!_

He _wasn’t._ There had been _nothing_ on his mind besides the base, animal need to _fight back._ To protect Bucky. There was a growl climbing up his throat, burning like acid, raw and pained, and Steve’s jaw hurt, and his fists hurt, and his _chest_ hurt, but he didn’t _stop,_ he wouldn’t stop until _Tony did._

_Stop fighting, Tony! Stop fighting!_

He wasn’t thinking.

_Stop, stop, stop!_

_I won’t let you! Stop! I will stop you!_

He could hear the sound of metal hitting metal. His shield was vibrating in his hands with each blow, like it was getting heavier and heavier, and Steve almost couldn’t stand its weight.

He tried suffocating Tony Stark.

He tried to beat him into submission.

He—

_I will stop you!_

Aimed a little higher. The helmet. Tony was using FRIDAY to fight back, and if he didn’t have FRIDAY, he wouldn’t be able to hit Steve back.

_Stop! You have to stop!_

Arms raised. Bad aim. Blurry sight.

He cracked the helmet open.

_Stop him!_

The chest, the chest, the chest. The Arc Reactor. He couldn’t fight without the suit.

The Arc Reactor is his heart. It's not really, but at the same time, it is, and Steve knew it. He knew how important it is. How terrifying it feels for him to have someone get too close, to have it being threatened, to have it _hurt_.

And he aimed at it.

( _You know what's about to happen_.)

( _Are you sure about this?_ )

( _You know what will happen if you do this—_ )

He fucking _slammed_ his shield down, crushing the glass casing, and under him he could feel the destruction of so many years combined, the toppling of an empire, the cry of a connection being severed by a blunt knife, by jagged shards, by breaking of trust.

He makes it true.

He makes it _stop._

(God.)

(What have you done?)

He broke his suit.

( _What have you done?_ )

He broke his heart.

Steve—

 _God_ , _fuck, no—_

Steve broke his _heart._

This whole time, Steve’s been thinking of the Avengers with a quiet, saddened nostalgia. A light ache that burns gentle, steady and constant in his heart, a longing for something lost, for something _good,_ for something he considered family.

_Good?_

What part of this is _good?_

What part of _this_ did Steve think he could fix with a phone and a letter? With a shitty excuse for an apology and pat on the back, the lazy reassurance that the all _had done what they thought was right_ , and all would be forgiven?

They can’t keep hurting each other.

 _Fuck,_ they can’t keep doing this.

They will kill each other someday at this rate.

They have to stop it.

Steve could’ve _tried._ In those last seconds, the last moments before it all went to _shit_ , the moment Tony looked at him with his eyes so sad, so hurt, so _betrayed_ – Steve could’ve tried to fix it, he could’ve said something, he could’ve _apologized_.

Not a _word._

Once more, he hurt Tony Stark.

And he didn’t say a _fucking word._

(You chose silence.)

Steve made that choice, and now he is paying the price for it.

If… If he ever wants to fix this, they can’t go on like this. They can’t.

They have to learn how to work together, how to be together. Or else, they will destroy each other. Steve has to let this mistrust go, he has to let _all of it go_ , he has already lost so much because of it, it almost costed him everything, and he has to learn how to let _go._ He can’t hold Tony at an arm’s length if he wants to forgive him. He can’t do that if he wants to be _forgiven._

They have to do this together.

He can only hope Tony will want it too.

He would give anything, _anything_ , to erase the last few years. To erase their conflicts and their fight. Their mistakes.

He would give anything know where he stands with Tony right now, because he honestly doesn’t _know._

Who is Tony for him?

A friend?

(Not anymore.)

_If he ever was._

A rival?

An enemy?

_Not an enemy._

(Then what?)

A teammate?

A—

A what?

Steve doesn’t know.

He doesn’t even know if they are anything at all anymore.

 

Wanda is leaving. And so is Clint.

It’s almost insulting that it would be such a calm and quiet affair.

There are no fights. There are no tears. If they didn’t know better, it would be a day like any other, inconspicuous and stilted, the very same normal day in a normal life they all pretend they have, even if they all know it’s a lie. It’s not a lifestyle, it’s a _waiting game._

And some of them had gotten tired of waiting and are going away.

Steve doesn’t blame them.

He is only staying because he has no other choice.

Clint has contacted T’Challa and found a way to make it back to the US safely without being spotted, the same way Scott had. Steve doesn’t know all the details, because Clint tells him that _T’Challa_ told him that it has something to do with one of T’Challa’s most trusted spies, a woman named Nakia, and telling them anything else would be to break her trust. Clint makes a face as he tells him that, as if he’s trying to imply something Steve doesn’t quite get, but the subject dies all too quickly for him to ask for any clarification. He guesses it doesn’t matter. If it worked for Scott, there is no reason why it shouldn’t work for Clint, and that is what Steve tells himself every time the anxiety starts to get too out of his control and threatens to dissolve the perfectly calm mask he’s wearing, trying not to make this any harder on his teammates than it already is.

He might not be their ruler, but he is their leader, and he knows how much his words can impact the actions of his friends. He has seen it happen too many times now to be oblivious to it.

So he won’t say, or do, or show anything other than support and calm.

This is not his fight.

 _This_ is not his _choice._

Wanda… Wanda is a little more complicated. Vision is actually leaving back to the US along with Clint, because he has already been gone for far too long for it to be unnoticeable, so he needs to head back and make sure no one has noticed his absence. In the meanwhile, Wanda will go ahead and catch a flight to Zurich, using the all the fake id’s and cash they had given her. She’ll go alone, and Steve has to keep reminding himself that it’s not a bad idea, she knows what she’s doing, she’ll be _okay,_ and as soon as possible, Vision will be making the journey back and meeting her there.

He doesn’t know how long they’ll be staying there. He doesn’t ask.

When Wanda wants to come back, she’ll let him know.

He _lets go._

Right now, there is nothing else they can do. They are outside the city limits, hours away from their current hotel, and there is a Wakandan jet waiting for them right ahead, with a pilot Steve can’t really see from his position. Clint tells him that it’s not Nakia, but it’s a pilot sent by the king himself, and Steve supposes he’ll have to take this information as it is and be satisfied.

Their bags are packed and they have all they need.

They are _leaving._

“Well.” Clint huffs, placing his hands on his hips and giving them all a look, his lips pressed into a thin line as he nods. “Guess this is it. You ready to go, Vision?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be, Agent Barton.” Vision replies, plainly, before turning to face them, Steve, Natasha, and Sam, with a perfectly polite look on his face. “Thank you for having me during this time, and I apologize if I was, at any moment, an inconvenience. But I promise you are safe, and if it’s ever needed, you can always count on me to help you, if you need one extra hand.”

And he means it, he absolutely means it, and Steve can see it in his eyes.

“We were glad you came, Vision.” Steve admits, and he too means it, because Vision reaching out to them has given them more than just mere information. It has given them, _all of them_ , reasons to expect a _change._

That’s why Steve steps forward and extends his hand, not only as a gesture of gratitude, but as a way to remind himself that this is not an _ending_ , it’s only – _maybe –_ the beginning of an opportunity.

Vision looks at the hand for a second, almost as if he’s a little startled by the gesture, before he raises his head determinedly and closes his hand around Steve’s in a firm handshake, leaving absolutely no doubts on _how much_ this actually means to him.

“It’s been a pleasure, Captain.”

“Thank you, Vision.” Steve answers, and he means so much more than he could ever say into those simple words.

Vision also shakes Natasha’s and Sam’s hands, firmly and assuredly, and then – he turns to Wanda.

“Wanda.” He breathes, and it’ll never cease to be surprising the way he sounds so human when he says her name, and even more surprising and tender is the way he holds her hand and _brings it to his lips,_ laying a gentle kiss on her knuckles before holding it between his own protectively. “I’ll see you soon.”

Wanda squeezes back, her eyes shiny and her smile hopeful, and she repeats, “I’ll see you soon. Be careful.”

Vision nods, and he lets her go with visible reluctance before turning around and heading to the jet slowly, leaving Clint to finish his goodbyes.

“I promised I wouldn’t get emotional, so no tears, please.” He jokingly says, and it’s ridiculous enough that they all actually laugh a little, disbelieving. But he sobers up, his smiling face not lasting very long, his eyes a little sorrowful and lonely even if he tries to make light of it.

When he speaks next, his voice is level and collected, no sadness and no regret, just the distinct, unmistakable sound of a _goodbye._

“You guys be safe, alright? Don’t slouch, don’t get cocky. I don’t want any of you to get caught not even _one second_ before you are ready.” Clint says firmly. “This shit won’t last forever. Make sure to remember that. You’ll be back home soon enough.”

“We’ll remember.” Steve affirms. “Thanks, Clint.”

Clint gives him a hard nod, looking like he’s having some difficulty keeping it together, but he doesn’t let himself falter at all. He steps forward and hugs each and every one of them, giving hard slaps on Steve’s and Sam’s backs, and squeezing Natasha and Wanda so hard he almost looked like he was shaking. Maybe he was. Steve doesn’t know for sure.

“Be safe, kiddo.” Clint tells Wanda before he leaves, with a kind smirk on his face. “I’ll make sure he gets home in one piece.”

Wanda chuckles, and her laugh sounds wet and a little broken, but she doesn’t cry.

Clint goes, and so does Vision.

And so will Wanda.

“C’mon.” Steve calls her, after they’ve watched the jet leave discreetly, barely making any sound at all as it took off. It flew beautifully, as all Wakandan jets do, and they all kept staring at the sky where it had disappeared into for far too long.

Wanda looks up at him, a little dazed, a little sad, and Steve can do nothing but place his hand on her shoulder and give it a little squeeze, putting on the kindest smile he can manage on his face. “We’ll drop you off at the airport.”

Wanda lets out a shaky breath and then nods, and they all go back to the car in absolute silence.

_Letting go._

 

(He counts himself.)

(Who else is left?)

 

These have been the longest years of Steve Roger’s life.

These past years on the run, these years of sleepless nights, of unanswered calls and screaming matches, of doubts and regrets and remorse, of guilt and _hurt, hurt, hurt…_ They have been worse than _everything else._ They have been worse than the ice. They have been worse than HYDRA. They have been worse than _Bucky falling off the train._

His body almost physically rejects this idea, the idea that something could ever be as painful, if not _more,_ than being responsible for the most important person in his life. But the truth is that Steve cannot deny it. Not even to himself. This is drawn-out, prolonged agony, like the finest form of torture, more methodic than any villain could ever hope to think of to make them suffer.

It has changed him, Steve recognizes. Not completely, not to the point where he doesn’t recognize himself, even though at some points, it almost looked like it did. But although he is still Steve Rogers, he is no longer the Steve Rogers that left the bunker in Siberia years ago, the Steve Rogers who abandoned his shield, the Steve Rogers who hadn’t realized how much pain he had been causing.

He’d like to think he’s changed. He thinks he might have needed it.

Steve has never needed much. He has never even wanted much, his desires as simple and straightforward as his routine, as his ideals, as his _life,_ and there is nothing that’s _material_ that he would miss much if he lost it.

It’s the other stuff that usually makes him hurt.

Losing his friends. Losing hope. Losing time.

And all of this, _all of this,_ has just been one big, great loss, and he doesn’t want to feel like this ever again. So, yes, he _needed it._ He needed to know, he needed to see what was wrong, or else he would keep doing it, and he would have destroyed himself if he hadn’t realized.

He deserved it, he supposes. It’s not like this just happened to him, unbidden and uncalled for, because Steve can pinpoint exactly what were the choices that he made that brought him here. He can count them all, and he can tell exactly where they overlap and where they turn into a goddamn snowball, just piling up on top of one another until it exploded into this mess. He’s not ignoring it anymore. He can think about it, clearly and unmistakably, and even if it’s not _comforting_ , it’s _necessary._

Some of it was out of his control. Actually, most of what happened _after_ they ran was out of his control. For someone who has once lost so much important information because he wasn’t _seeing enough_ , he has watched, in every single detail, his teammates change; And his mission had been exactly that. Watch. Not act.

_Wait._

Always the hardest thing for Steve to do.

_Wait._

Some losses, like Scott’s and Clint’s and Wanda’s, friends who have parted ways in search for other ends – those losses don’t depend solely on him.

But it’s him that feels like they are losses. They aren’t, truly. Nothing that separates them is permanent, and even if Steve would rather have them all together, even if he _misses them_ , they are not _broken_ , and he has no reason to believe this will be last time they will all be together.

Whatever happened on this end, Steve muses, is not truly the issue; Although, it had not come without a price.

Watching them change had meant watching them _regret._ Regret their choices, regret their actions, and for Steve, it had been so _hard_ to understand why they would ever let something like _regret_ be the driving force of their lives. Steve is not immune to it, _far from it_ , but he as always tried so, so hard to ignore it, as a necessity to push himself forward, to make the weight of the casualties of his life feel a little less overwhelming, make it seem like moving on to the next mission wasn’t so impossible.

But that had gotten out of his control. And when it did, he stopped realizing why it was important to even feel it at all.

At first, he couldn’t understand why Bucky didn’t believe him when he told him, over and over again, that he wasn’t the Winter Soldier. That it wasn’t his fault. And it’s _not – It’s not_ , and Steve will not back down on this argument, he will not concede the slightest possibility that Bucky might be _guilty_ of any of the Winter Soldier crimes, because all of that shit is HYDRA’s fault, and HYDRA’s alone.

But… But he guesses that, the same way Steve feels like Bucky’s fall is his fault, Bucky must feel like all of those things are his fault. Steve won’t pretend to know anything about the intricate connections and specifications of the human mind, he is no scientist or scholar, but if there’s one thing he _does_ know is _Bucky Barnes_ , and Bucky, not the soldier, not the brain-washed man, but _Bucky_ , Steve’s _best friend_ had always been the type of man that deals with guilt in a way complete opposite to Steve’s.

He allows it to wear him down. He cannot ignore it.

_Like Tony does._

To think Bucky would feel better just by telling him so would be the same thing as expecting Tony Stark to back down just because Steve bared his teeth. He should’ve known better. He should’ve known he was being _unfair_ , unfair to Bucky’s feelings, to the way he dealt with things and how he thought about himself.

It’s not wonder princess Shuri asked him to leave.

Steve can’t imagine what sort of damage he might have caused had he stayed.  

Wanda, too. Steve can also see the instances where he almost did the same to Wanda. How he had despaired that night at Clint’s, when Wanda admitted feeling guilty, when Steve still saw her as a _child_ and had been trying to shield her from any sort of that regret, as if she couldn’t _take it._ It’s… It’s kinda insulting, actually. Clint was right. He wouldn’t do this to Nat. He wouldn’t do this with any of them. And if Wanda isn’t a child, if Wanda isn’t his charge, why would Steve do something like that?

Oh, God, Nat. Natasha. Natasha had been right. Of course, she had always been right. Screaming at Steve’s face that he couldn’t see past his bitterness, that he was mistrustful, that he had been a coward… Her point had been made, definitely. Steve has heard her, loud and clear. And even worse than that, he _agrees_ , and there is nothing he can do about that. Nothing he can do except change.

Because it would make no sense, would it?

Steve Rogers, to mistrust everything and everyone, and take the double-agent’s word for it?

It’s unfair to call Natasha that, he knows. But it’s also true. Steve, who has been explicitly against agendas and all they entail, _Steve,_ who has once chided Natasha for almost compromising their mission because of her own agenda, trusts her more than he trusts anyone else in his life.

_How did it come to this?_

Steve doesn’t want his life to become this pit of hypocrisy he seems to have dug himself into.

Past the double-agent, past the Black Widow, _Natasha Romanov_ is an incredible woman, she honestly awes him and Steve couldn’t be more proud to call such a woman his teammate and his friend, but what honestly – What is the fundamental difference between her and _Tony,_ for example?

Steve didn’t use to see it.

Because—

Because it made no sense, did it?

Natasha fought for the Accords. Natasha distrusted Bucky, every single step of the way. Natasha is unpredictable, she could change alliances at any point in time – not because she isn’t loyal, but because she is always trying to find a way out, trying to find a second, a third, a fourth solution, whatever solution is necessary so she won’t get hurt.

Natasha did _all of those things._

_And so did Tony._

Then why, _why?_

Why—

Why can Steve fall back into his connection with Natasha so _easily_ , but Tony _still gets under his skin_?

And then he realized—

_It’s because Tony doesn’t back down._

Natasha does, sometimes. Not always, and Steve has the incredibly distressing memories of their fights over these last few years to prove it, but she _does_ back down, sometimes. Eventually. After their fight, if Steve doesn’t go to her, _she goes to him_ , and they _talk_ , and even if it hurts, even if it feels like they are ripping themselves apart to let the truth come out, they _do it_ , and they always, _always_ come out stronger on the other side because of it.

Steve and Tony never fucking _talked._

They would insult and hurt each other and then get distracted with the next shiny, explosive thing; They would face aliens and terrorists and Nazis and monsters, but they wouldn’t face each other.

They don’t know how to fucking _talk_ with each other.

_They only know how to **fight.**_

The one time, the _one time_ Steve had tried to reach out to Tony and explain himself, he had sent a letter who remained unanswered for _years, and it still was_ , and it had been the _worse_ thing he could do, far too late, far too overdue to mean anything.

That letter he sent, _fuck—_

That letter was a mistake. Steve _knows_ it was a mistake.

He can’t even imagine what he must have sounded like, in a letter of apology written when he was still so angry, still so lost inside his own morals, still feeling like the fight hadn’t ended. Like self-important, arrogant dick, probably. Tony might’ve burned the damned thing, and Steve wouldn’t have blamed him. But he hopes he kept the phone. If nothing else in that piece of paper, Steve had meant his last words the most, and he _would_ be there as soon as Tony called him back. He would come running. Steve wouldn’t hesitate in the least at the smallest chance of being welcomed back _home_.

Steve does not regret saving Bucky.

But he does regret sacrificing Tony to do so.

He regrets how little he cared for what he was doing as he did it. For two years, the world had known Bucky was the Winter Soldier. For two years, _Tony_ had known. He couldn’t have imagined Bucky would have anything to do with his parent’s death, but he knew about Bucky. He knew enough. Enough for Steve to have worried. Enough for him to tell.

But he didn’t. And he has no excuses for that.

He took advantage of the fact Tony hadn’t been living at the Compound anymore and pushed it to the back of his mind and left it there, to never bother with it again. Every single day, every day Steve used the uniform Tony upgraded, the shield, the facility, the equipment – every single thing that Tony had somehow touched and improved to help them continue to do their job, and Steve had still _ignored it_ , trusting the fact that Tony wasn’t around, unconsciously hoping he would never need to address it, that it would all solve itself like fucking magic and no one would get out of it hurt.

He’d been so naïve.

Worse – he’d been an ignorant idiot.

And that… That is cruel to Bucky, too. It’s cruel to _both_ of them. It’s cruel, because Steve had brought Bucky straight to Tony’s path, put him in a position where they’d have to _fight_ , and _God,_ what if that had caused an _irreversible_ damage to Bucky?

What if it had _destroyed_ him?

Bucky, who said he remembered _every single one_ of the Winter Soldier’s targets? What he must have felt, when Steve brought him to fight against the Stark’s _son_? At the time, Bucky hadn’t known Steve _knew._ And it probably was so fucking _painful_ , it must’ve been dreadful, and he didn’t say anything because he thought Steve hadn’t _known._

Steve couldn’t have managed to do this on purpose even if he tried – But he did it anyway. He’d hurt _two_ of the most important people in his life _at the same time_ , with one single secret, one single choice, and that choice had been nobody’s fault but his own.

The fight in the bunker—

Bucky, fighting the son of the people he had been forced to kill—

Tony, fighting the man who wore the face of the killer who took his parents from him—

And Steve—

Steve could have prevented that.

But he _didn’t._

_Fuck, shit—_

This is why he fears regret so much.

Because how can he live on, knowing he did _this_?

Knowing the choices he made caused this?

_Steve has so many amends to make._

_He doesn’t even know where to begin._

He doesn’t know how Tony could ever forgive him. He wants to, he wants to so _badly_ , he wants to apologize for real and make sure something like this will never happen again. He will never, _never_ allow himself to be so reckless and so careless again. He will not allow his ego to put an obstacle in his way of fixing the mess he made, he will not take this sad excuse of a friendship he believed he had with Tony as the limit of what they could have.

He won’t—

He _refuses._

_That **can’t** be it. _

He doesn’t want Tony Stark to be his enemy, he wants Tony Stark _by his side._ As friend, as a teammate, as _family._ As—

As whatever the fuck Tony will have him as.

As long as they can talk.

As long as they can forgive each other.

As long as this isn’t their _end._

Steve wants to hear Tony’s _voice._ He wants to pick up the goddamned phone and call, and apologize, and try to explain himself to Tony with excuses he has no right to give. He wants to, _he won’t_ , but he _wants to._

Steve wants to look into a mirror and not dread what he sees, in the beard on his face or the holes in his uniform. He wants to be that good man again, the man who isn’t haunted by the stupid, unthinking things that he did, the man who is more than Captain America, the man who is only Steve Rogers, and that’s _okay,_ because Steve Rogers is good enough for him.

Steve doesn’t want the shield back. He could care less about the shield.

His loyalty doesn’t lie on that shield.

But he will take it back, _gladly,_ with a _smile_ on his face, if Tony is the one who offers him it.

He has no right to ask for it.

He has no right to _want it._

He left the shield behind when he broke Tony’s heart, and that had been cruel, so cruel, and he knows, but _God—_

_He would take it back if Tony gave it to him._

Steve doesn’t know if he will ever deserve it.

Tony’s father made that shield.

But he will be damned if he doesn’t want, _with every fiber of his being_ , to make himself deserving of holding that shield in his hands once again.

If—

If Tony forgives him—

If Tony _forgives him_ , Steve will take it.

Steve will take the olive branch this time.

And this time, he will _not_ let go.

 

(He understands.)

( _That’s the worst part, isn’t it?_ )

(He _understands._ )

 

Four hours later, T’Challa calls again. It’s almost the middle of the night.

“Captain.” The king greets, seemingly in a good mood. “How have you been?”

“I’m fine, thank you, Your Highness.” Steve replies a lot less enthusiastically, his throat feeling a little raw and his eyes bloodshot from pressing his fingers into them until he could see white spots in his vision, trying not to let the goddamned _tears_ fall again, after his talk with Natasha. After this afternoon alone, with only his despairing thoughts as company. He wonders if T’Challa can see those kind of details through the projection of the communicator, and he sincerely hopes not. “I’m sorry, I meant to call you earlier.”

T’Challa considers him for a moment, head tilted curiously and one of his eyebrows slightly arched, but not without giving off a feeling of elegance that Steve has no idea how T’Challa manages to exude at every single second of the day.

“It’s no problem. Even as a fugitive, Captain, you still seem to be a very busy man.”

Well, maybe he _can_ see it after all.

It _sounds_ like a taunt, but Steve won’t take the bait. He simply sighs and gives a minute shake of his head, a silent plea for T’Challa not to insist on it, and the king is kind enough to grant him this small mercy for now. With one equally minute nod, T’Challa changes the subject abruptly, uncaring if it looks too obvious.

Well, not like it matters if it’s obvious if Steve is the one who asked for it anyway.

“I’m calling is to inform you that Agent Barton has made it safely inside the United States territory.” He informs, as professionally and efficiently as he can. “He hasn’t surrendered yet, but he will in a few hours, and it might be broadcasted on the news soon enough. If you’d like to monitor it, I’d recommend staying alert.”

“We will, thank you, T’Challa.” Steve replies gratefully, because that _is_ useful information. As is every other piece of information T’Challa has ever granted them, actually. “And thank you for helping us do this. It’s not your responsibility to help us, and you’ve gone out of your way to do it, far more than we deserve. Thank you.”

“It is not really about deserving, my friend.” T’Challa says kindly. “It is simply about doing what is right.”

And although Steve doesn’t exactly feel like he has the high ground to speak about rights and wrongs anymore, T’Challa’s words do bring a smile to his face, a sort of ironic humor, before he ignores the king’s easy dismissal and continues, “Thank you anyway. Clint really wanted to go back to his family.”

“And he will.” T’Challa affirms. “I just want to make sure that you know that.”

“I do.”

T’Challa makes _the hum_ , and Steve at this point is so accustomed to it he doesn’t react to the obvious assessing in his eyes. “You are not as concerned, this time.”

“Things seem to be getting better.” Steve admits. “I don’t have much faith in governments, but I do trust people, T’Challa.”

Or he’s learning to, again. Slowly, somewhat painfully.

But he is learning it again.

“I trust you.” Steve says. “And I trust Clint, and I trust Tony. It doesn’t mean I’m not worried… It just means _I know_ Clint is not alone in there.”

T’Challa gives him a wide, satisfied smile, so bright it makes his eyes squint a little. “I’m glad to hear that, Captain. And I’m glad to hear Mr. Stark is one of those people, considering what happened the last time you two spoke.”

Steve sighs remorsefully, looking away for a brief second, feeling the familiar ache making itself known inside his chest – but surprisingly, it doesn’t hurt as much now. It still throbs, it’s still tender, but it’s healing.

It might take a while.

It might never go away.

_But it’s getting better._

“Tony and I… We haven’t had the best relationship possible, T’Challa. I admit.” Steve confesses lowly. “But I haven’t given up on it. I _won’t_ give up on it.”

“No, I can’t imagine you would, Captain.” T’Challa laughs lightly, amused. “Maybe you should tell him that. I’m sure that Mr. Stark would appreciate it.”

It’s Steve turn to laugh then, a little wry, a little wistful, bit still a genuine laugh. “He might try to punch me in front whatever camera he could find, that’s what he’d do.”

“You’d be surprised.” T’Challa cryptically says. “For two people that seem so different, you are very alike in some matters. Giving up is not something you two know precisely how to do.”

Steve… Steve isn’t sure what T’Challa means, exactly, so he doesn’t really answer.

He knows what he _wants_ to believe, but he doesn’t allow himself to.

“It would be an entertaining, at least.” T’Challa then adds, as if to try and dissipate the thin veil of awkwardness that Steve unknowingly drapes over their conversation.

Steve shakes his head a little, amused, “No, I’m good. Thanks, T’Challa.”

T’Challa gives him a mockingly solemn nod, in good humor. “Not all battles are won by charging ahead, Captain. Sometimes, knowing when to wait is as valuable as knowing when to strike.”

(Oh.)

(Oh, _damn,_ T’Challa.)

“I wish you luck on your wait, my friend.” T’Challa graciously offers. “And when the time comes, I also wish you strength to fight for what you need.”

 

(He understands.)

 

_Tony?_

(What, Steve?)

_If we ever see each other again—_

**_When_ ** _we see each other again…_

_I’ll do whatever it takes for you to forgive me._

(Assuming I will let you.)

_I will do it anyway._

_I will make it right, Tony. Please, believe me._

_I will fix us._

(Huh.)

(Would you look at that.)

( _There_ is the Steve Rogers we all know and love.)

(I’ll hold you to that, Captain.)

(I’ll fight you, every single step of the way.)

(You know I will.)

(But I will hold you to that promise.)

 

As T’Challa affirmed, Clint’s surrender is announcement much quicker than Scott’s was. Maybe because they were ready for it, or maybe because they aren’t as surprised by the event as they were the first time around. Steve doesn’t really care about the reason why.

Clint’s trial lasts even less than Scott’s. The result is exactly the same.

“Ten years.” He whispers under his breath, allowing himself to take a deep sigh of relief before falling back into the chair, realizing his feet had gone numb at some point since they all gathered in front of the TV.

_No Raft._

“And it can be reduced.” Sam points out. “Scott is already in house arrest.”

“They’ll be safe.” Natasha exhales, relieved. “They will all be safe.”

 

_Soon._

_Soon,_ he tells himself.

Everyday is one step closer to the day they go home.

 

Wanda comes back, as she promised. And then, after a while, she leaves again.

They all let her go. They have no reason to stop her.

Sometimes, they go with her. Not in a sense that they follow her, because they don’t, but they do move countries with her every once in a while, simply because it’s convenient. They still have to keep it moving, after all. Their numbers might be slowly going down, but at the end of the day, they are still fugitives; And the ones that are left have to stick together as much as they can, because they have no one else they can trust.

They go through Spain, Croatia, Poland, Ireland. They don’t go to Hungary, because Natasha refuses to take a single step into Budapest and she won’t tell them why, and Steve knows better than to press her on the matter. They also can’t go to Germany, because _Steve_ refuses to, or Austria, because the entire country is still far too guarded against them for it to be an option, but other than that, they have become so good at getting by undetected that no border is really a problem to them anymore.

Months go by like this. It’s how Steve starts to count the passage of time; One country, one measure. He loses himself to the different landscapes and city lines, changes in temperature and humidity of the air, the color of the sky, the accent of the people. Time converts itself into a different type of scale, one that it’s no longer based in _how long they’ve been gone_ , but _how long until they can go back._ Steve forces himself to stop thinking about what is broken, _despairing_ about what he destroyed – to allow himself to think only about how he will fix it, _how long_ until he fixes it, and nothing else matters.

It’s the only comfort he can give himself.

It’s the soldier in him, for _once in his life_ trying to make him hold on to hope, instead of dreading that all might be lost. This is his mission. Making amends. _Fixing it._ That is all he cared about.

He thinks about it every day.

Every single day.

Every day, every new country, every new city, and Steve dares, a little more with each passing day, to hope that _this day_ might be the day.

The day the phone will ring, and Tony will tell them they can go home.

They can go home, so Steve can _fix this._ Fix _them._

_He is a fool._

And it comes.

The day comes. But not as he wished it would.

They are in Scotland when it happens.

They are so blissfully unaware. He couldn’t have imagined it.

They are in Scotland, three thousand miles away from home, when _everything_ changes.

 

This is how it happens.

In the way he’d least expected it.

They are all in the room, coincidentally, because they haven’t been out the entire day. They are going over some plans and checking new information they recently gathered, making plans for their next stop when they leave Scotland in a few days. According to Natasha, there is something worth checking out in the Philippines, but it would mean making a long journey and they need to make sure they have all they need to make the trip, or else it would be too risky.

Steve is sitting at the table, looking at some projections of 3D maps and energy readings, comparing to all the news of recent events they could find, when—

And it’s the vibration that tips him off, even before the sound, and Steve honest-to-God startles and nearly cracks the table with the force which he hits it with his elbow, dropping everything, the projector making a heavy sound as it hits the wood.

“Steve?” Natasha asks, immediately on high alert, her hand automatically dropping to her pocket where she has a small switchblade hidden.

Steve doesn’t hear her.

He reaches into his pocket and fishes out what’s inside and—

_It’s happening._

Sam takes in a sharp breath, alarmed. “It’s _ringing._ ”

_The phone._

**_The phone is ringing._ **

For a second, it’s almost like the entire world disappears. Everything around him just vanishes, all his worries about the mission, about Wanda’s whereabouts, about the _next day –_ it all does away, because the phone is _finally_ ringing. There is no next day.

Finally.

_Finally._

His hands are _shaking._ There’s a shrill noise in his ears, sharp and loud and deafening, and Steve almost fears he won’t be able to hear a word, but even so he flips the phone open, he accepts the call; And as soon as the phone touches his ear, he realizes he _has no idea what to say,_ how should he start this after their fight, after the violent rupture they had gone through—

He won’t risk this.

He has to stay calm.

He has to listen.

_God, all he wants is to hear Tony’s voice._

He takes in a too careful breath, not even letting it reach his lungs, and he says:

“Hello?”

There is a pause, _the longest pause in Steve’s life_ , and a voice answers:

“Steve?”

And the entire world crashes down on him at once—

_What—_

His chest seizes—

_No, where’s—_

He can’t think—

_Where’s Tony?_

He can’t _breathe._

Steve feels cold.

_Freezing cold._

“ _Bruce_?” He blurts out, surprised and confused and scared, and his eyes dart in Natasha’s direction automatically, and she stares back just as horrified, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, just _as confused._

“ _Bruce?_ ” Sam parrots, getting up in a haste without even thinking about it, adrenaline putting in on edge.

“Steve, _where are you?_ ” Bruce inquires accusingly, his voice sounding a little too distant through the speaker of the phone. “Is everyone else with you? Where’s Rhodes and Vision and _Nat_? Why aren’t you here?”

_Something happened._

_Something happened to New York._

_Something happened to **Tony**._

“Turn it on.” Steve ignores Bruce’s questions, turning around and pointing a finger at the television, ordering Sam, or Natasha, or both, he doesn’t _know_ , all he knows is that he needs the TV on _now._ “Turn it on!”

The fucking television turns on in a random channel, a reality show Steve could not give two shits about and while Sam tries to put it on the news channel, Steve turns back his attention to the phone, his mind going haywire with all the horrid possibilities. “Bruce, where is Tony?” He demands, “Did he give you this phone? _Where is Tony,_ Bruce?”

“You didn’t _see it_?” Bruce questions, disbelieving. He doesn’t sound like he is panicking, but he sounds urgent, and there’s so much _noise_ on the background, Steve has no idea what’s going on. “Where the hell _are you_ , how didn’t you see it, _turn on the freaking news or something—_ ”

“ _Steve_.” Natasha exhales, so low, so lifeless, that it makes Steve’s blood go cold inside his veins, and he turns around—

**_Tony Stark missing._ **

It’s on SBN. It’s the latest news.

There’s a picture of him and a footage of a _gigantic_ , circular spaceship descending upon the buildings and shattering them all, shaky images of crashed cars and broken windows, of wind and dust and screams and _chaos._

_Attack on New York city. Alien forces crashing down buildings, over two hundred people hurt, thirty-five confirmed deaths._

_And Tony Stark…_

_Gone._

And they weren’t there.

The Avengers were needed, and they weren’t there.

_Why didn’t he call?_

Oh, God, no—

_Why didn’t he call?_

_I told him._

_I told him to call me._

_I meant it, I meant it with all my heart._

_Oh, God, why didn’t you call me, Tony?_

**“** It’s _him._ It’s _Thanos._ He’s looking for the _Infinity Stones._ ” Bruce explains frantically, and he is making _no fucking sense_ but Steve isn’t really _listening,_ he doesn’t understand how this is happening, why this is happening, all that he knows is that it’s _too much_ and he can’t _think._ “Steve, you gotta get over here quick, I don’t care where you are right now, you have to _come._ Everyone has to be here. Are they all with you? Where is Vision?”

“Sam and Nat are here.” Steve automatically responds, his eyes still glued to the television. “Wanda and Vision are close.”

“Well, then _get them_ , get inside a car or a boat or a plane, whatever, but _get here_ , fast.” Bruce orders. “Where is _Rhodes?_ ”

Rhodes. _Where is Rhodes?_ Steve tries to push the white noise on his ears away, he tries to get back the full control of his limbs and of his mind, even though everything inside him is _screaming_ and _crying_ in confused agony, he needs to _think_ , he needs to stay calm, because Tony’s _gone,_ and that is _dangerous._

“Rhodes is still in the US.” Steve remembers, relaying the information as steadily as he can to Bruce. “He’s probably at the Compound.”

“You’re _overseas?_ ” Bruce splutters, but interrupts himself before he can continue. “You know what, I don’t care. _Get over here._ ”

“We will.” Steve assures him, but his mind is slowly getting clearer, his control of his muscles is coming back and his thoughts are going _numb_ , the all too familiar feeling of the soldier in him standing up for his duty, eliminating all that might lead him astray from his mind, focusing only in his objective.

The world is in danger.

_They are needed._

He cannot let himself fall now, there is no time.

He has to be a soldier.

There is no time for nothing else.

“Bruce.” Steve calls, pressingly. “What happened to Tony? How did you get this phone?”

“He dropped it.” Bruce says. “He dropped it when he got into the spaceship. He’s _gone._ ”

The world is in danger.

_And he’s gone. Tony’s gone._

They have to move.

“Alright.” Steve confirms. “Alright, ok. We’ll be there. ETA 8 hours.”

“Alright.” Bruce exhales harshly, his breath causing static through the phone, steeling himself. “I’ll see you at the Compound. But you got to _hurry,_ Cap, please _._ ”

Steve mutters an affirmative and shuts the phone off before Bruce can say anything else, standing up and heading directly to their belongings, ignoring everything else concerning their previous mission.

This is bigger.

This is dangerous.

_They have no time._

“We need to find Wanda and Vision.” Steve commands, and both Natasha and Sam are on their feet immediately and start to follow his lead, both of them seamlessly falling into his rhythm, ready for battle as soon as they were needed. Steve turns to Sam for a moment and tells him, with a nod, “Get the Quinjet. We’re leaving.”

He asks, while he is quickly putting on his boots, inclining his head in the direction of the TV, “What are those things?”

“I don’t know.” Steve admits, solemnly. “But it doesn’t matter. C’mon. We have to find Vision. Bruce said whatever it is, it’s looking for the stone.”

 

_Tony—_

_You’re not dead._

_You’re gone, but you’re not dead._

_I refuse to believe I would miss the chance to apologize to you again._

_You’re not dead, Tony._

_So come back alive._

 

They are inside the Quinjet in less than ten minutes, and Sam is flying them in the direction of the city as fast as he can.

It feels like forever.

It feels like _losing time._

“Bruce is heading over to the Compound. We’ll meet him there.”

Natasha hums in acknowledgement, but otherwise does not react.

Steve stares at her for a moment, his heart his beating wildly in his chest, his feelings still all over the place, but through the haze, his worry for her drives itself forward and makes him put his hand on her shoulder, gently, as tender and caring as he can.

“Will you be okay?”

_With Bruce here?_

“Always.” Natasha replies, curtly. And then, she makes a pause before asking, softly.

“And you?” She whispers, so Sam cannot hear it. “Will you be okay?”

_With Tony gone?_

Steve grits his teeth, embracing the pain that crawls up his jaw as an old friend, and he says:

“Always.”

 

_Tony?_

_Tony, talk to me, please._

_Please, Tony._

_I know you’re not dead._

“We have Wanda.” Sam informs them, looking at the panel readings over his right. “Spike of energy signature at 30 east. ETA four minutes.”

“This is much farther than we agreed to.” Natasha complains through gritted teeth.

“Teenagers.” Sam jokes, but all the seriousness in his voice just ruins the effect, making him sound completely deadpan.

Steve doesn’t care where Wanda and Vision are, all that he cares is that they find them. Steve is already thinking about their next step, the step that honesty concerns him the most – because out of all the ways he has imagined going back, _going home,_ it had never been like this.

No matter the circumstance, out of forgiveness or out of need, in his mind, Tony would always be there in Steve’s mind, an anchoring point, a focus, something he could ground himself on and from there, decide where to go.  

But Tony isn’t there. He’s not there, he’s _gone._ And they are going back to the Compound anyway.

“We will have to call Rhodes.” Steve reminds them, and both Sam and Natasha look a little surprised at his comment. “We have to let him know we’re coming.”

“He’s going to bite your head off.” Sam warns, not as an attempt to dissuade him, just as a reminder, because he’s already passing the phone back to Steve. Steve is not sure if he’s talking about the Accords or Siberia, but at this point, it really doesn’t matter.

“I don’t care.” Steve says, plainly. “He can scream whatever the hell he likes. As long as we can get in, find Bruce and understand what happened.”

Sam nods in agreement, but then makes a pause.

“His best friend just disappeared, Cap.” Sam point out mournfully, his voice careful. “He might be dead. The guy might not be thinking straight.”

“Tony is not dead.” Steve retorts, and the _total conviction_ in his voice makes him almost sound _delusional_. “He went into that spaceship. He is not dead.”

But it has to be true. Steve will not allow himself to think otherwise.

Tony has survived against worse odds before. They have survived the Chitauri, they survived Ultron, they survived _each other._ This will not be the thing that takes him down. Tony Stark is a force beyond Steve’s comprehension and control, beyond _anyone’s_ comprehension and control, and he will not – he will _not_ slip through Steve’s fingers again, he _won’t_ , not before they can _fix this._  

_Tony Stark is not dead._

_He’s just gone._

“Ok.” Sam replies, perfectly appeased, as if it’s that simple. Steve is surprised with his easy compliance, but he has no time to dwell on it, because as soon as Sam turns his head, he blurts out:

“Oh, _shit._ Cap?” He gestures with his chin to the front. “Looks like we have company.”

Natasha leaves her seat at the back and comes to the panel with them, and as soon as she does, she sees the red flare of Wanda’s powers sparking over the buildings, the sounds of concrete crumbling and glass shattering – and the figures standing before their friends, the faces of the enemy, of the threat they don’t yet know, and soon will wish they _hadn’t._

_They’re here for the stone._

 “They found Vision.” Natasha grumbles, stepping away so she can return to the back.

“What do we do?” Sam asks, already preparing to land the Quinjet in whatever place he can find, his fingers moving over the panels to quickly they almost become a blur.

_What do they do?_

The words sound almost nonsensical to Steve, for a brief, almost intangible second.

_What do they do?_

He knows Sam is asking for orders – but something in Steve, somewhere deep inside, the same place where he has shoved all his feelings into in favor of keeping himself alert, of making himself stay focused, a soft, wounded thing gives out a grieving cry, upon the realization that he still cannot _rest,_ not yet, not before this.

Not before this mission.

They start to descend, and he gives a quick look to both his of them, seeing Natasha adjusting her uniform and arming herself with her Bites and knives, as the Quinjet enters the autopilot for a safe landing and Sam quickly reaches for his Wings, the perfect replica princess Shuri had given him once his original had been taken by Ross.

They don’t really need his orders, do they? They know what to do. They’ll do it, even if Steve wasn’t with them. That, honestly, is the biggest comfort Steve could ask for; Because right now, he doesn’t want to be fighting with _teammates_. He wants to be out there with his friends. With his family.

They are divided, they are battered and bruised, still frayed at the edges, still a little torn. His uniform is stained and ripped, and it’s probably far too dangerous to be using outdated gear to a battle like this, but he really doesn’t care. He wants to get on with this mission, he wants it to be _over._ He wants to go out there and _win_ , he wants to survive this, survive one more time, so he can _fix everything._

_Tony Stark is not dead._

_He’s just gone._

_And until he comes home…_

Until then, Steve Rogers must be a soldier.

And they do what they have to do.

They fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap! I can't believe it, you guys. We finally made it!
> 
> Thank you all so much for accompanying me on this journey, from the bottom of my heart. This has certainly been the most emotionally exhausting and painfully detailed character study I've ever done, not to mention that crazy word count, and I've loved every _second_ of it. It has been a pleasure diving into Steve's mind and learning more about it, making connections and plotting what I feel like is a pretty realistic character development for him, and hopefully you have felt the same. 
> 
> Does it soothe my heart completely, after what Civil War has done to us? No, it doesn't. And I suspect it doesn't for you, either. You might have gotten all the way down here with maybe some small amount of relief that Steve is finally more aware of the consequences of his actions and his guilt - but there is still a little bitterness at the back of your tongue, isn't there? Because at the end of the day, Steve learns but doesn't give in. He changes, but we ache to see him act on that change. It's better, but it's not enough.
> 
> I won't blame you, if you do. To be honest, I don't think it'll ever be enough because the damage has already been done. Once bitten, twice shy.
> 
> But for me, at least, it hasn't ended. There is still a Part 2 to go - And this time, Tony will be there. And if half an arch cannot stand, because we only had Steve's feelings being unraveled here, I wonder how it will all hold up when  
> we put them both back in the same room. Imagine Tony, who will be more vulnerable than ever, face to face with a man who inspires so many conflicting emotions inside of him, after experiencing the most traumatic event of his life. It's going be a wild ride, folks. I can't wait to get started.
> 
> These boys are a mess, I tell you. A beautiful, infuriating mess. 
> 
> For your final consideration, I've also brought some gifts, of sorts. As I've mentioned to some of you, I have a list of Post-CW fics that I enjoy immensely and recommend at every chance I get, because they all had a little something to contribute to my analysis and outlining of this fic - and now, you can find these fics in this [Collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/CWFavorites) (That is still under construction, so expect a lot more recs soon), or in my bookmarks, with the tag Post-CW Favorites. Knock yourselves out, then come back to me and tell me what you think. I am 100% serious. Just because this fic is over doesn't mean I'm done talking about it. Also do keep in mind that you can also find me on my tumblr and my askbox and my chat is always open. 
> 
> And if someone likes that sort of thing, I do have the habit of listening to music while I write, and I have a selection of songs that kept me inspired while I worked on this, and you can find those songs in this little playlist I have organized [right here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLOj6mo6CmHlUfwDnN6kPtX8ugC1ZCa9OP). It will soon be uptaded with new songs for Part 2 as well.
> 
> Lastly, I'd like to give my most sincere thanks to every single one of you who have gotten this far with me, especially to those of you who have been present in every single chapter, giving me your thoughts and opinions and headcanons, making sure I stayed motivated and reminded me _why_ I was doing this. We all needed some respite. I hope I did something to add to your experience in this fandom, a little something to think about when considering Steve's character and his actions and decisions in the MCU canon, and hopefully, something that will make you a little more eager not for a fight, but for a reconciliation. 
> 
> I would like to invite you all to stay tuned for the next part of this series, which is the next big thing I am in desperate need for: A Post Infinity War fix-it. Yep, it's gonna be canon compliant. Yep, I know a way to fix that. So, if you trusted me on this one, trust me in the next one as well. If you think you saw how good I am at filling in the blanks in this fic, darling, you have no idea about what comes next. After that ending in IW, I have no mercy left inside me. Let Marvel try their hand at ignoring their plot holes and discardable devices - and I will give you the most realistic story that I can possibly produce, use whatever the hell I can get my hands on as a tool, and maybe, just maybe, fix _more_ than just IW.
> 
> Is it ambitious? Yeah. But you wouldn't have gotten this far into this fic if you weren't as well. Neither would I. 
> 
> I can't wait to see you there, friends. Get excited, get ready, and get the tissues.
> 
> Our next stop is Tony Stark.


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